


Mine

by Trin303



Series: Kinktober 2020 [8]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: BAMF John Wick, Dark!John Wick, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Gaslighting, John has lost his mind, Kidnapping, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader is you but also Helen, Seriously guys this is fucked up, Somnophilia, Stockholm Syndrome, Yandere, Yandere John Wick, it'll make sense if you read it - Freeform, obsessive! John Wick, possesive! John Wick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26896948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trin303/pseuds/Trin303
Summary: Kinktober 2020Prompt: SomnophiliaJohn Wick becomes enamored with a woman he sees on the subway and decides that she will be his.
Relationships: Helen Wick/John Wick, John Wick/You, John/Reader, john wick/ reader
Series: Kinktober 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962415
Comments: 75
Kudos: 259





	1. Mine

It was a matter of happenstance seeing you for the first time. Perhaps it was God's will or fate. Or maybe, it was just luck.

But John Wick's car had had three tires blown after a bullshit car chase. Aurelio had been called to pick it up but his job wasn't done, so John had gone by foot. He crossed Manhattan with a torn jacket and a scars on his face from a nasty crash.

He saw you on the subway. You were wearing reading glasses and a blue dress that slipped up your thigh as you crossed your legs. You were pretty, he thought, buried deep in an older copy of The Brothers Karamazov. Not exactly light reading for a morning commute.

You had given up your seat to a older man and it made anger flare within him.

No lady should have to give up her seat. Especially with all the young men from wall street in their ill-fitting suits hadn't thought to move.

He would have made them move had you not soon gotten off the train.

It was stupid, he thought at the time, but he had followed you. The contract didn't have a time constraint. He put it off in favor of following the pretty lady from the train.

You stopped at a coffee shop and then continued half a block to one of the local college libraries. Where you worked.

He spent the day a ghost amongst the shelves, watching you with a foreign feeling in his chest. Fascination was not something he was used to. He had never, in his life, given such attention to someone he wasn't planning to kill.

The care you gave each book that you touched, the softness in your voice when you spoke to each student and professor looking for help... he was captivated.

By your smile, your eyes, your tenderness.

It took hours of hiding from your eyes to realize what it was he wanted from you .

Everything. 

And he didn't even know your name.

What kind of name could grace the most magnificent beauty he had ever beheld?

What name could honor such a creature?

Helen, he decides. The name graced the most beautiful woman in the world, after all.

Reincarnated Helen stands before him and he understands why wars have been fought over women with that name.

He would kill every man in New York for you without a second thought.

He hopes, for both their sakes, that you are single. He won't hesitate to take out any competition because you are his.

You don't eat lunch and he notices. He'll make sure that changes. He'll take good care of you, he thinks.

You doesn't leave work until five and you walk back to the train station. He stays far behind you but close enough that you are in his sight. 

He follows you off the train as you trek back home.

You looks back at one point, scanning the crowd. He thinks that you must sense him but John does what he does best and disappears.

His clever girl.

You are unable to spot him and you turn back to walk home. You sees nothing and he is pleased.

He keeps following you until they reach an older apartment building. You slip in the front door and he takes note at which mailbox you open in the atrium. He also notes that you don't use a key to get into the door.

The object of his fascination is living in an unlocked building in Brooklyn. That just won't do.

He finds himself shaking his head, waiting for you to disappear up the stairs. When you do, he steps in. He learns your last name and apartment number.

The first is easily forgettable. It will change to Wick soon enough.

The second, he memorizes and leaves. He walks around the building and finds which windows must be yours. The lights are on and John finds a quiet place to stand and wait.

The sun sets and the city becomes illuminated in lights. Still, he waits in the shadows, not even noticing the chill that nighttime brings. He is too desperate, watching your window intently.

You pass by every so often, although at the angle, he cannot make out what you are doing. Still, his eyes hunger for the sight of you.

At ten, the light goes off. And John waits.

You do not emerge from the building, meaning that you are likely going to bed. He’s unsure how long it takes his Helen to fall asleep but he gives you an hour, just to be sure.

It is eleven when he goes into your building, again feeling a rush of annoyance at the broken lock on the building. One less protection for his chosen partner.

He’ll make sure it’s fixed soon, although he wonders if there is any point in it. You will soon be with him night and day.

The elevator is broken, which also makes him scowl. You are on the fourth floor and he is angered at the thought of you lugging groceries up those stairs. Again, that would quickly change.

You wouldn’t be living here much longer.

He finds your apartment and smirks at the welcome sign on the door. You shouldn’t be so inviting.

It takes less than a minute to undo your locks and that makes John’s brain race.

Because he’d like to take his time. He’d like to get to know the beautiful woman from the subway but if this is how you're living… in a broken building with easy to pick locks, perhaps he’ll need to take you sooner.

He isn’t prepared to do so but he considers it just the same.

John creeps silently through your apartment. Bills on the table, outstanding college loans. No wonder you lived in such a place.

No longer. Those loans will be paid off by morning.

A gesture, to show his sweet Helen that he was capable of providing for you.

The thought fills him with pride.

By his side, you would never want for anything.

He checks your fridge, your cabinets. 

You have food but is by no means stocked up. That makes him shake his head. Anything could happen. A terrorist attack, a natural disaster, a pandemic. You weren't the least bit prepared.

He couldn't blame you but he would fix it. When you lived with him, you would be set. Another reason to expedite the inevitable.

He examines your bathroom next. Tidy but utilitarian.

He can't wait to lavish you in lotions and oils and expensive fragrances. Run a bath for you and soap your body with his hands.

He wonders what sounds you'll make.

Will you be breathy? Will you moan like a whore or beg him with those pretty lips? Will you bite your lip, feigning reluctance?

Will you scream?

Oh, he hopes you screams.

He feels his heart race as he reaches your bedroom. The television plays softly in the background. Again, that won't do. You need uninterrupted sleep to be rested. And you will need to be rested for everything he's going to do to you .

He turns it off and focuses his attention onto his Helen.

You're a vision, illuminated only by the lights from the window. Your blankets are draped up to your stomach. You're wearing a spaghetti strap cotton tank top.

He's torn between a silent promise to always keep you in satin, silk, and lace or ensuring you never wears clothes in his bed. What will be _their_ bed soon enough.

Your phone is on the bedside table, charging. It’s an older model and John picks it up. He tilts the screen, examining the surface. There are very light marks over where the code goes. He tries for the year first and guesses on his first try.

And soon he is in.

He looks at your texts first. The first few seem to be from work. You have a week old text from a friend asking you to go out for drinks which his Helen had politely declined. No texts from men, except from work.

He goes through your apps and is relieved to find no dating apps.

Good.

He wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who looked at you the wrong way but he'd hate to start a relationship on the precipice of murder.

He checks your pictures next. You have pictures of books, ones he hasn't seen on your shelf. Are these books you want? He'll buy them all.

There are pictures of flowers, mostly daisies, and dogs and cats on the street.

Perhaps a pet will ease you to your new life. He wonders if you would prefer a kitten or a puppy. Maybe he can get both.

His Helen seems like a caregiver. He had seen it on the subway, seen it while you helped students.

You would be a good mother, he decides, looking down at his beautiful Helen.

His mouth waters as your lolls to the side, a soft sigh escaping those perfect lips.

He’s instantly hard as your tongue licks at your lower lip.

John places his palm over his dick and rocks it gently. He feels… a bit guilty doing this while you're asleep. But it’s not his fault that you looks like a goddess even in your sleep. 

He rubs his cock through his pants and his Helen shifts, the blanket slipping an inch or two lower. Oh…

He walks to the side of the bed. Slowly, carefully, he pulls the blanket just a bit further down your legs. His sweet Helen doesn’t even stir. And sure enough, you're not wearing pants. Not even shorts. Just a tank top and cotton panties.

He wants to rip them off with his teeth.

John considers it, too. 

There are certainly immediate benefits to just taking what he wants now. But, as much as he hates to admit it, he needs to be patient. He needs to do more research. He needs to prepare for what it will mean to take you home.

And when he takes you home, it will be ready for you . It will have everything you need.

So no, he decides. He won’t take you tonight.

But that doesn’t change the fact that your body is exposed and beautiful. And if he cannot have it now, he will do the next best thing.

John takes his cock out of his pants and watches your chest rise and fall. Your nipples are hard under your thin top. Soon, he will have them under his hands, between his teeth. Soon, they won’t be covered by pathetic scraps of fabric.

He is hard as can be but the friction is a bit much and he rubs the leaking precum over his cock. His thumb becomes coated in the sticky substances and he wonders just how deep a sleeper his beautiful Helen is.

He should resist, he knows he shouldn’t take the risk until he is ready to take you , but he cannot help himself. John stands over you and reaches down, placing his thumb against your lips.

And, fuck him, your lips part and he slides the digit into your mouth. You suck, gently, as you sleeps and John nearly throws his whole plan out the window. But no… no. This is more than enough to sustain him until he is ready.

He swirls his thumb around your mouth before taking it out and replacing it with his fingers. Two slip inside and he coats them in your spit. 

How are you sleeping through this? He wonders, imagining what else he might be able to get away with.

When his fingers are soaked, he takes them out and runs them along his length. Your spit coats his dick and, if he closes his eyes, he can picture that it’s your mouth he’s pumping into and not his hand. 

John pictures you on your knees, looking up at him with those wide brown eyes, moaning around his length.

He pictures you on your back on the ground, with John kneeling above you and stuffing his dick down your throat.

He pictures you trapped on your stomach as thrusts into you, filling you with cum until you literally cannot take anymore. He’ll tie your legs together and not let any fall out and, if somehow, you don't fall pregnant from that, he’ll do it all again.

And when your belly swells and your tits get heavy, he’ll make you bounce on his cock.

“Fuck!” It escapes him before he can stop it but when he opens his eyes, his Helen is still asleep. 

Maybe, when he has you in his home, he’ll fuck you until you pass out from pleasure. And while you rest in unconsciousness, he’ll use your body again. 

With that thought, he erupts. His cum covers his hand, his fingers as he pumps the last of his pleasure. The last time, he thinks, he will come anywhere but in or on you body.

The cum on his fingers starts to drip and he moves his hand over your mouth. He smears the cum on your lips and stuffs your mouth with his fingers.

A small moan escapes you as he rubs his cum on your tongue.

Oh, his girl is perfect.

He removes his hand and cannot help but lean over to kiss you, softly.

“Soon.” he whispers to you .

He kisses your lips again and goes to your closet to make notes of all your sizes.

He has much to prepare for.


	2. Hunter and the Prey

John Wick has always been a patient man. It’s part of the reason he has his reputation of focus, commitment, and sheer fucking will. It occurs to him that patience has been easy because he has never truly cared about the results.

It’s easy to be patient, waiting to snap someone’s throat, when there is nowhere else to be. When there is nothing else to do.

It’s hard to be patient when all he can think about is how sweet his Helen looks sucking on his fingers as you sleeps.

The day after he found you, he follows you again. Had watches as you help a woman pick up her fallen purse on the way to the train. He watches as you slip a few dollars into a subway musician’s hat. He watches as you buy your morning coffee, chatting with the barista who knew you by name.

You order a vanilla latte and John made a note that he would need to buy an espresso machine. He would not think to deprive you of your daily treat. For now, at least. When you were pregnant, the caffeine would have to go. But for now, he would encourage whichever routines he could keep helping you adjust to what would soon be your new life.

When you arrives at work, John disappears. 

There were things he needed to do and he knew your schedule from your phone.

You would be at work until five and John was without a car. While yesterday, that hadn’t bothered him, today he would need one. 

He makes a call to the Continental, asking the Concierge to secure him a vehicle and he makes his way to Manhattan. He exchanges a few coins for the car and accesses his safety deposit box for cash.

He would need it.

With a phone call as he drives, he orders new locks and alarms to be sent to his house.

He spends the day preparing, buying anything that caught his eye that you might like. He buys you décor with daisies, the flowers you had as the background of your phone. A set of daisy-themed stationery, a mug with your favorite flower. He found a lovely blue sweatshirt with daisies on it as well.

He fills bag after bag with dresses, both casual and formal. You would need both, eventually. He finds shoes for every occasion, thrilling the commissioned employees as he chooses one of every color.

He buys you sweaters and shawls and skirts that he can’t wait to hike up past your hips. He chooses a handful of nightgowns, acknowledging that it will make your transition easier if he eases you into your new role.

He gets himself a large coffee and goes back to the library to resume watching his Helen.

A coworker calls you by a different name and a surge of anger fills him unexpectedly. These coworkers, these friends are confusing you on who you are. It infuriates him but he reminds himself that it won’t be for long. Soon, his Helen will disappear from their lives. With his wealth, you will never need to work again.

At five, you pack up your things and John stands off to the side. Out of sight of the front desk but within earshot. You are taking your time getting ready.

“You okay, Y/N?” A coworker asks and, again, his fury rises. That is not your name.

“Yeah,” His Helen answers, then hesitates, “Just… I don’t know. Do you ever get the feeling that you’re being watched?”

And, oh, his Helen is clever.

Of course, you are. Your namesake was.

Helen of Troy was a goddess and a queen and a warrior. It only made sense that Helen would be just as clever and powerful. You are already as beautiful.

“Sometimes. It’s probably just some of the frat boys trying to mess with you. Didn’t that one kid, Colton, ask you out?”

“Colin.” You correct and John wonders if he has time to find and kill Colin before he brings his queen home. “Poor kid hasn’t even grown a full beard. I’m old enough to be his mother.”

Your coworker snorts, “If you had him at fifteen, maybe.”

“Still.” You pause, “But it’s not just at work. Yesterday, walking home, it felt like I had eyes on me the entire way.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“No. And I looked, too. Because I was certain someone was there. I felt a bit better once I got home but…” You fall silent and he can picture you shaking your head, “Never mind. I’m sure I’m imagining things.”

“Have you been sleeping okay?”

You snort at that, “Fantastic, honestly. “I had some… interesting dreams to be sure. But I slept well. I woke up feeling great, but I just can’t seem to shake the feeling that someone is watching me.”

The conversation doesn’t worry him. Even if you reported to the fucking police that you thought you were being followed, they would never be able to stop him from taking you. And once you were his, they would never have a chance in hell at finding you. 

“I sound like I’m losing my mind.”

“You sound stressed. Take a cab home if you’re nervous and try to get some rest.”

“I’ll be fine.” You say, “Thanks Sam.”

“Anytime. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” His Helen confirms and he hears the soft click of your heels on the floor. He waits thirty seconds before following you. He isn’t worried about losing you . Even if you fall from his sight, he knows where you live now. He knows where you're going.

He follows you home again, making sure you arrive safely before he hails a taxi back to the library. He takes his car home and brings all your new gifts up to his room.

His weapons, which once were scattered around his house, are gathered together and brought down to the basement. It will be kept locked, he decides, and you will never have a reason to go down there without him.

John sits, then, at his computer and begins ordering every book saved on your phone. Every book in your apartment and others that are listed as recommended or bundled together. If you want, he’ll turn an empty room into a library for you. 

Perhaps, he thinks, you will thank him for his kindness on your knees…

He orders everything he can imagine that you will need. An espresso machine. A new blender. At your apartment, he had found yours in the sink with remnants of a smoothie. He will make them for you each morning.

Make-up in the brands you had at home. Shampoos, conditioners and every other cosmetic or toiletry he can think of. Except razors. He’ll need to make sure you are safe before he can trust you with those and if you become distressed, he can shave you until you are ready.

Then he orders everything else that you will need. Padded restraints, in case you have trouble adjusting to your new life. Locks for the outside of his room and the outsides of the windows. 

When he is done, he rests. It is barely dark outside and you fell asleep last night before eleven. He has time, so he naps for a few short hours, before driving back to your apartment and breaking in.

The next few days follow the same routine.

He follows you to work in the morning, making sure you arrive safely. That no aggressive New Yorkers try to hurt or take what is his. And when you are at the library, he disappears for nine hours. He goes home and installs the new security system that has arrived. He puts locks on the outside of his bedroom door, locks on every window in the house.

He alarms every entrance to his house so that it cannot be opened from the inside or the outside without his thumbprint, retinal scan, and a six-digit passcode. He sets up cameras in every room that will stream live to his phone.

Never has he been so grateful to live so far away from any neighbors. To be located in the middle of nowhere.

It will be perfect.

He spends every day making sure that it will be perfect.

Then he arrives at the library to follow you home. Some days, he waits outside for your light to go off and others, he leaves to run errands. To eliminate marks on his list so that, when the time comes, he'll have nothing to pull him away.

But each night, he always makes his way back to you . To watch you sleep. To touch your soft skin. To test the limits on just how much beautiful Helen can sleep through. 

John watches from the alley as the lights go off.

Its time to see his Helen.

...

You know you're being followed. You're certain of it. 

It had started small with an eerie feeling. Like eyes were watching you as you walked to work, as you ordered your coffee. The first day, you just assumed it was anxiety.

The second day, you assumed it was paranoia.

There was no rational reason to assume someone was following you.

There were plenty of reasons you could have woken up with a strange, salty taste in your mouth after having bizarre wet dreams that left you wanting more. And such dreams did not tend to coincide with anxiety.

You told you coworker about it but the more you said out loud, the crazier it all sounded.

Why would anyone follow you?

You don’t have money or possessions worth stealing. Your entire life is focused on your job. Though students occasionally ask you out, you can’t remember the last time you went on a date, so this isn’t some ex following you around.

It’s crazy.

No one would follow you.

But it didn’t ease the tension.

On the third day, you woke up again with that strange taste in your mouth. 

You wondered if you were getting sick. Maybe that was why your mouth felt dry but you couldn’t find anything on the internet about being sick and having a salty taste in your mouth. 

You considered calling out, if only just to get a better understanding of what was going on. But you didn’t. Your job, however uneventful it was, was your life. Your livelihood. 

You searched your apartment, just to ease that anxiety but nothing was out of place. Nothing seemed to have been moved. 

So, again, you convinced yourself it was paranoia and went to work.

But the moment you stepped on the street, you felt it. Those eyes. You held back a whimper, half-convinced that you really were going crazy.

The day went by slowly and, when you got home, you took a long, hot shower. You scrubbed at your skin, hoping that if you scrubbed hard enough, that itchy feeling of anxiety would disappear. It didn’t.

And it was stupid, but you couldn’t help yourself. You walked around the apartment taking a mental inventory of where everything was. The way that your books lay upright on the coffee table. The dishes left to dry on the dishrack. The direction your shampoo bottle faced. Everything you could think of. 

You placed a hair on your phone and the book on your bedside table so you could tell if they were moved in the night.

And you settled in. Anxiety filled you, but sleep claimed you.

When light peaked in through the curtains, you woke up. The salty taste was back and you wiped your mouth. It was dry, just below your lip.

Drool? You wondered.

The first thing you do is to check your phone. The hair had fallen.

It could just be the air, you tell yourself. Perhaps you turned heavily in your sleep and it flew away. Or maybe the air in the apartment had circulated and it fell. It was a silly test but you felt yourself shaking as you sat up.

This wasn’t right. 

You got up and checked the apartment. Everything. 

Your clothes, where you kicked off your shoes. The alignment of the books and your toiletries. Nothing was off.

You fell on the couch, your heart racing. 

So why did it feel like your life was crumbling around you?

There was nowhere to go.

No one to tell.

You could call the police but what could you say? 

I think I’m being followed but, no, I haven’t seen anyone and the only proof I have is that a strand of hair I laid on my phone was not there when I woke up?

They’d lock _you_ away in an institution. Or call you paranoid.

You already knew you were paranoid.

Fuck.

You got dressed, quietly, listening for every little noise and left for work early.

Even leaving early, you could feel something watching you as you left the building. You looked around frantically, but sure enough, there was nothing. No one was watching you.

 _You’re losing your mind, Y/N_.

You hail a cab, which you never do. It’s costly and unnecessary, but no one can follow you in a cab, right?

The entire ride to work feels off, however. It still feels like you’re being followed. Watched.

You skip your morning coffee and head straight into work. You call your landlord and beg him, bribe him, to replace the locks on your apartment. It takes an offer of three hundred dollars, which you really don’t have, to get him to agree to change the locks before you get home.

But what else can you do?

“You alright?” Sam asks you.

“Yeah.” You nod and wonder who you’re trying to convince. You consider telling her, but what would be the point? She wouldn’t believe you. She’d just think you were going crazy, she’d tell you to go home and get some rest. And home is the last place you want to be.

Especially because it’s Friday. And you’ll have to be home for the next two days.

The day goes quickly… too quickly, and you sense it’s because of the dread in the pit of your stomach.

You leave work as late as you can manage, hailing yet another cab to take you home.

You meet your landlord at your door and he gives you a new key, shaking his head in disbelief as you take the money out of your security box.

He takes it and leaves and you lock the door behind him.

And you still don’t feel safe.

You make yourself a pot of coffee.

You’re not sleeping tonight, if only to prove to yourself that no one is watching you. You read. You watch television and work on the blanket you were nearly done crocheting. Whenever sleepiness threatens, you go to the bathroom and spray cold water on your face.

It’s two am and no one has come.

Perhaps you are just being paranoid.

Still, you can’t bring yourself to go to sleep. You need to prove to yourself that this is all in your head. That you’re paranoid. That nothing is wrong.

You start to prepare a fresh coffee when you hear it.

A jostle of the lock.

Metal on metal, however faint.

You grab a knife out of the knife block and suddenly feel unsure. Where the hell is your cell phone?

There is a click and the knob turns.

Run, hide, fight.

That’s what you’re supposed to do if you’re attacked, right?

But you’re in your apartment. The door is out of the question.

The fire escape.

You bolt, running through the kitchen, not stopping to look for your phone. You’ll find one, you tell yourself. But you need to run.

You slam the door to your bedroom as you hear the front door open and a low chuckle. “Oh, clever Helen. What gave it away?”

 _Helen?_ Oh god, you think. _He thinks I’m someone else._

You don’t respond, though, locking the bedroom door and rushing to the window. Your fingers fumble and shake as you unlock it and rush to throw it open. You climb out onto the fire escape and start taking the stairs three at a time.

There is a loud sound from above and you know that the door to your bedroom is no longer standing in place. 

Fuck.

You make it to the second floor and keep going.

“Stop running, Helen.” You hear from above but you don’t stop. You don’t lookup. You hit the first floor and you feel the fire escape shake as another weight hits it. Footsteps loudly follow behind you and you grab the ladder and push it down.

Fuck, what the hell do you do with the knife?

You drop it off the edge and clamber down as quickly as you can.

You hit the ground and immediately regret not wearing shoes in your apartment. If you live through this, you’ll fucking sleep in sneakers. 

You pick up the knife off the ground and spare a glance up. Oh, god, he’s already on the ladder and he jumps to the ground.

You sprint down the alley towards the street as fast as you can manage.

Suddenly, you’re yanked back, the knife falling from your hand with a clatter. You open your mouth to scream but a hand covers your mouth while an arm wraps across your chest and pins your arms to your side.

You try to scream again but nothing escapes from the hand.

“Shhh, shhh, shhhhhh.” The man whispers, “It’s alright, sweet Helen. You’re safe.”

_Safe?_

You struggle against the arms but it’s pointless. The voice in your ear keeps whispering, “Everything’s fine. I’ve got you now, love.”

Oh god, you wonder, am I going to die?

“Such clever prey. So strong. You’re fucking perfect, aren’t you baby?”

She whimpers, kicking her legs off the ground to try and throw him off balance but it does nothing.

“I’m going to need you to calm down, baby. Can you do that for me?”

You shake your head and try to force a sound out around his hand. But everything is muffled and yes, it’s New York, but it’s the middle of the night and no one is going to hear you. Your shout turns to a whimper and you feel your body start to still.

“Good girl.” he praises and his arm around your body loosens slightly as he lowers you back to your feet. The moment your feet hit the ground, you turn in his arms and try to headbutt your captor but his hand catches your throat and he pushes you back into the alley wall.

“Uh-uh.” He says shaking his head as he squeezes gently. You try to inhale but you can barely gasp on the air. Stars invade your vision and the hand from your mouth is removed. You want to scream but you can’t without air. “It’s alright, love. I’ve got you.”

And that was what she was afraid of.


	3. Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wake up in your new home.

You wake up feeling stiff and achy. You go to stretch but you can’t. Your legs are locked in place. All at once, you find yourself wide awake and searching for what has you restrained.

Your hands are bound above your head, tied together. Your legs are spread open, each tied to the end of the bed. There's a bit of wiggle room but you sure as hell aren't moving more than a few inches.

“Easy.” The familiar voice says to you, “You’ll hurt yourself.”

The events of the previous night, the previous week come back.

The feeling that you were being watched, thinking yourself half-crazy until you heard the lock click open and you ran for it. You didn’t even make it past the alley behind your apartment before he had caught you, wrapping you up in his arms, trying to quietly goad you into submission.

You had tried to run. To fight. 

And he had choked you.

After that, it all went blank.

You swallow, heavily and ignore the pain in your esophagus to look to where the voice comes from. He is sitting in front of a large window with views to a balcony and of a green yard. You’re not sure where you are but this sure as hell isn’t New York.

He’s… attractive and it’s stupid, but that just infuriates you all the more.

He’s wearing a three-piece suit with the tie draped around his neck, undone. He’s got a dark beard and long hair. And he has dark piercing eyes and immediately, you feel your body shiver. Those were the eyes that were following you. The eyes that hunted you.

He stands from his seat in the armchair, opening a bottle of water. He slips a straw into the water and offers it.

“Here.”

You wonder if you should take it. Your throat burns and water sounds so good right now, but you don’t trust him.

“It’s safe.” He promises, a hard tone to his voice, followed by an authoritative  _ “Drink _ .”

You lean forward and take the straw into your mouth. The water is still cold and it feels divine as it falls down your throat. You wonder how long it has been since you last ate or drank. The sun is out and you can see it from a large wall, covered in windows.

You release the straw and he sets it on a bedside table.

“Where am I?” You ask, wondering if he’ll even bother to answer.

“You’re safe.”

Safe? Was he mad?

You look around the room. There are three doors. One to the balcony, and two regular doors. You’re unsure where either leads. The one across from the balcony wall has a pinpad and some sort of complicated locking device. So does the balcony.

The last doesn’t, which makes you think that it isn’t an exit. A bathroom, perhaps?

The room itself is largely white and utilitarian. There’s the bed and matching armchairs by the balcony. A nightstand on either side of the bed. But that is all.

“How… how long have I been out?” You ask, hoping for a clue to your unconsciousness. 

The bed dips as he sits next to you.

A large hand reaches up towards your face and you wince as a finger tracks down your throat.

"Nearly twelve hours.” He pauses and says, “I'm sorry I had to hurt you."

You don't know what the fuck to say to that. so you don’t say anything. 

You need a plan. You need a way out and right now, you don’t have shit. Twelve hours. Fuck, you could be anywhere in North America. 

You can’t stand. You can’t even sit up.

But even if you could, you’re locked in this room. Locked in this house and you don’t know where the fuck you are.

The only way out, if any, is by leave of this stranger. This stranger who has stalked you, kidnapped you, and now has you tied up in this room. A kidnapper’s humanity is her only chance out of this.

You swallow. “My name’s Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N. What’s yours?”

And apparently, that is the wrong thing to say. His eyes flash dark and his face tightens. “Your name is Helen.”

There it is again. Helen.

Does he have someone confused for you? Is this your way out?

“No, it’s Y/N. I swear. You can even look at my ID. It’s in my wallet.” You’re rambling now, but you can’t help it. He’s glaring. He’s getting angry.

“Your name…” He says slowly, “is Helen.”

“It’s not! I’m not who you’re looking for! I think this is a mistake…”

His thumb presses down on your lips, hard. It stops you from continuing and you wonder if he notices how much you are shaking. When you stop trying to speak he gives a small smile.

“Good girl.” He praises, “You are  _ exactly _ who I’m looking for.”

You want to argue. You want to insist on your name, your identity. To convince him that you’re not this Helen that he is looking for but survival instincts kick in and you decide not to piss off the man who has you strapped to a bed.

You nod. “Okay.” You whisper and he moves his thumb, “Okay. What’s your name?”

His face relaxes a bit, “I’m John.”

“Hi John.” 

Progress. Okay. That was progress.

"Can I… Can I ask you some questions, John? I'm just so confused." You try your best to look as such. As it turns out, it isn't hard to look confused and scared when that was exactly what you were feeling.

John pets your head and pushes your hair back from your face, "Of course, my love.”

The endearment sends a shiver down your spine but you don’t have time to be scared or confused. Not when you don’t know who this guy is or what he intends to do. 

The only good thing you can think is that if he wanted you dead, he could have killed you already.

That was comforting, right?

“Where are we?” You try, hoping for some kind of hint.

“Our house.”

“Which is where?”

His hand curls around your chin and you’re struck by how large it is. Hands aren’t something you think about being strong but his… he tilts your head up, barely using any force, and you find yourself wondering just what those hands are capable of.

“You don’t need to know that right now, sweet Helen.”

“But--”

“Now I know this is new and I’m going to do my best to be patient with you.” He says, his fingers pinching your chin, “But we’re going to set some ground rules. Understand?”

You nod, swallowing hard. 

“Say, ‘I understand.’”

“I… I understand.”

“Good girl.” He lets go of your chin and sits back up. “You’re safe. And right now, that’s all you need to know in terms of where we are. Right now, you are in our house. In our bed.”

_ Our house.  _ That was the second time he had said that. Our bed, however, was far more intimidating a thought.

Is that what this was about?

It couldn't be.

He was, she hated to admit it, ridiculously attractive. In any other circumstance, he would make her mouth water. He wouldn't have an issue finding a woman. He could definitely have picked one more attractive, she thinks, younger with silky skin and a gorgeous figure.

She wasn’t hideous but she sure as hell wasn’t so sexy that she drove men mad. To kidnapping.

_ Our bed,  _ she thinks again.

“I’m going to take care of you.” John continues, petting her hair back again, “And you’re going to let me. I will provide everything for you that you need. I promise that you won’t want for anything.”

“Except my freedom.”

His face gains back that hardened edge and you wonder if it was a mistake. But just as quickly as it arrives, it vanishes.

“I will make this as simple for you as I can: when you are a good girl, you will be rewarded. And when you are a bad girl, you will be punished.”

The last bit sent another shiver through you. You weren’t sure what he meant but punished but you were certain you didn’t want to find out. That meant escape. And fast. God, you had to get out of here fast. 

His hands reach up to where your wrists are bound. “We’re going to start small. I’m going to undo your hands and legs. I can assure you now that there is no getting out of this room without me. I don’t recommend trying. But you’ve been here awhile now. I’m sure you need to eat and use the bathroom.”

You definitely did, to the second. 

As far as eating went, you are torn completely between denying anything he tries to feed you and ensuring that you keep your strength up. Either way, however, you nod.

John unclasps your wrists and you bring them to your chest, holding them tight to you.

He stands up and walks to the end of the bed where he unties the bindings from your ankles.

Your body aches but you feel instantly better when released.

Even though your arms feel weak, you push yourself to a sitting position.

“Go easy.” John warns, “Your limbs will need time to adjust--”

You push yourself to your feet, ignoring him, and you instantly regret it. Your legs are wobbly and you’re not entirely sure you can fully feel them. You hazard a step forward and collapse.

It is only John’s quick reflexes that keep you from hitting the ground.

Bastard.

John wraps his hands in your hair and tugs, just short of true pain, forcing you to look up at him. “That was strike one. I’ll let it slide because this is still new for you. But the next time you outright ignore me when I’m trying to  _ help _ you, you’ll find yourself in a precarious situation.”

He lifts you off the ground easily and sits you back down on the edge of the bed.

“Stretch your limbs. Wait until you have full feeling and then stand up.”

You feel your cheeks burn. This is the last man on the planet you want to be schooled by yet here you are, listening to him speak to you like a misbehaving child.

Still, you listen, stretching out your legs, giving your body the time to adjust.

This is a lesson. A reminder of where you are. 

Even when released from one kind of bondage, you are trapped in layers. And you couldn’t even make it a single step after getting out of those bindings, let alone to the door. That was something to consider if you were to try to escape.

You hoped he wouldn’t keep you locked in those bindings but there was no way to know. You sure as hell weren’t going to ask.

After a minute, John offers you a hand.

You don’t take it but you do push to your own feet.

Your legs still feel tired but not nearly as wobbly.

John doesn’t comment on your action, merely points with his head towards the door in the back. “That’s the bathroom. The door on it is a privilege. Eventually, you may earn the privilege of having it shut. For now, it stays open. And before you get any clever ideas about closing it anyway, I’ll remind you how easily I busted down your bedroom door.”

Fuck.

It feels like every possible action has been divided into his stupid constraints of good girl / bad girl. You listen to him, you’re a good girl. You ignore him, and you face the consequences, whatever they may be. It was barely a choice but it felt like rebellion was the only tool you had left at your disposal.

_ Be patient _ , you tell yourself.

There will always be time to rebel later. Right now, you really just needed to fucking pee.

He doesn’t follow you in, which is a comfort in itself. 

The bathroom is huge. It’s ridiculous. It was bigger than any bathroom you’d ever seen. A jack and jill sink is in the open when you first go in and you nearly gasp when you look at the counter.

Your favorite lotions and soaps and makeup are all meticulously arranged on one side. Did he take your things? You weren’t sure if that was a comforting thought, to have your own things, or the most invasive part of this whole fucking disaster.

The other has shaving cream and hair products and aftershave.

You go in farther and, fuck. There’s a huge, square shower built into the wall. It’s tiled with a large overhead spout that’s at least a foot wide.

Beyond that, in the far corner, is a magnificent bathtub. It’s large and deep and looks far better than the one you had in your childhood home.

You missed baths. You hadn’t had one in years, living in an apartment with only a shower.

Fuck.

And, Christ, there’s bubble bath and salts and all kinds of products on a stand near the tub that most definitely were not there for John.

He didn’t seem the type to use lavender scented bubbles. 

You snort at the thought and check, again, that John has not followed you in, and you walk over to the toilet. You relieve yourself quickly and go to the sink to wash your hand.

There are a lot of products. Mini-projectiles, you think, but none that would stop him. And none that were worth the consequence if you fucked this up.

From the looks of the doors and the complex security there, you would need John to get out of this room, one way or another. 

You walk back into the main room and John stands at the end of the bed.

“How do you feel?”

As if that wasn’t the most loaded fucking question on the planet. How did you feel? Angry and scared and helpless and pissed the fuck off.

You open your mouth to lie, to say fine and anything else that will appease this madman but nothing comes out. You try to speak again and find yourself completely mute and terrified and unsure of how the fuck to respond to all this.

John steps into your space and you try to move back but, again, his arms are around you before you can blink.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me.” He says lowly and you can’t help it. A giggle escapes. A tiny, hysterical giggle.

“I want to go home.” You whisper.

“You are home.”

You shake your head, frantically, “People are going to look for me!”

“It's a possibility,” And that gives you a spark of hope before John adds, “But they’re not going to find you.” He forces you to look up at him, “That life is in the past.”

“I have a job and when I don’t show up on Monday--”

“They’ll find a notice that you’re leaving New York, effective immediately. Family issues.”

Your heart sinks even further and John pushes back a lock of hair and you helplessly ask, “And when my family looks for me?”

“Oh sweetheart,” and it’s not condescending as much as it is sympathetic and fuck him, but that stings all the more, “They’re not even going to notice you’re gone, are they?”

A breath stutters out of your chest and you want to collapse onto your knees because he is right. They won’t look for you. You only call home once a month or so but it could take a year before anyone realizes they haven’t heard from you. And maybe they’ll reach out but maybe they won’t.

“My friends…” You try, shaking your head.

“Won’t be surprised that you’ve finally cut off contact. You never see them, do you? They reach out every so often but you always turn them down when they want to get together. It was only a matter of time before you went your own way, they’ll say. Face it, sweet Helen, you’re alone, except for me.”

Oh God. Again, he’s right. You like having time to yourself and most of the time you prefer it. You’re there for your friends but you’re not even sure you remember the last time you went out for drinks or dinner or for anything other than hugging someone through a break-up. And they asked, but you turned them down.

And for what?

To read at home? 

To relax and make things and watch crappy tv?

You had isolated yourself and he could be right. There was a very strong possibility that no one would be looking for you. That no one would even think to report you missing.

You had wondered, at first, why he had chosen you.

Was this why? Because you were such an easy target?

No.  _ No _ , you think. He’s messing with your head. You have friends. Sam knew you weren’t close to your family. When she heard that you quit to take care of them, she’d know it was bullshit. She’d reach out.

And Meg… she wouldn’t just let you disappear from her life, if only because she needed someone to listen to her talk about her bad decisions.

And, almost as if he can sense the hope building within you, John tilts your head back up.

“And anyone else who tries to take you from me will be dealt with.”

There was an edge to that sentiment. He had proved to be capable of kidnapping. Was it so far a jump that he would kill?

Maybe. Probably.

You want to cry but you can’t. You won’t in front of him, and John is watching you like a fucking hawk. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you came out of the bathroom

“I’m all you have.”

It’s stupid. You’ll look back on the moment and know that it’s stupid. That it’s a waste of energy and irrational. Even at your strongest, you wouldn’t stand a chance against John. He’d knocked down your door, ran down four flights of stairs, and choked you out without breaking a sweat. 

You bring an arm back to strike and throw a punch.

Adding insult to injury, John snorts before he catches your fist in his hand. He turns it back and yanks it up behind you. The angle fucking hurts as he spins you and shoves you face-first towards the wall.

He slams into you, pinning you. Locking you down quite literally between a rock and a hard place.

“Strike two.” He whispers, into your ear, lowering his head. You feel his lips on your neck and your entire body stiffens. He nips at the skin, sucking at a tender spot and then licking his tongue over it. “I’m tempted to just call that a foul, because it was pathetic. I know you’re clever. You must have known that wouldn’t work.”

You can feel every bit of him as he presses you into the wall.

His chest and stomach are sturdy and warm but you have to fight a gasp at the hard length against your ass. Your heart stutters in your chest, a flash of fear flooding you yet again as his hips adjust.

John has made it clear he wants to keep you. He had called his bed  _ our bed _ .

Your head feels light and you’d probably be swaying if it wasn’t for John and the wall. He must be able to tell, feel you sinking forward. He releases your arm from behind your back and steps away. Your heart jolts as you start to feel yourself falling, but he scoops you up and into his arms.

A cruel irony. He carries you like a bride to the bed, where he lays you down.

“I’ll go get your iron supplement.” He says, running his hand along your cheek.

You blink, frantically.

Your iron supplement. 

Well, John has proven to be thorough. It only stands to reason he would have invaded your medicine cabinet as well as everything else. 

He rises to his feet and John flashes you a smile that, Christ, should be fucking illegal.

You look down until he turns to the door and you watch, carefully as he scans his thumb, his eye, and enters a code into the keypad. His fingers move in a blur and you’re not entirely sure how many digits the code was. Five? Six?

The retinal scan is fucking ridiculous. 

How much money had he poured into this makeshift prison?

He spares you a glance and you quickly look away as he leaves. The door shuts behind him and the sound of feet quickly fades.

You rise to your feet, carefully. He was right about the iron supplements. You need them daily and the last thing you need, right now, is to fall in this godforsaken room. 

You check the door first. As you expect, it’s locked. You look at devices John has installed and are at a loss.

Christ.

You try the other side.

Nearly the entire far wall is taken up by windows. But, unlike the windows in your apartment, these are thick. You knock it with your fist, testing it. No. These won’t break easily. 

You check the door to the balcony. It’s set up the same as the door to the rest of the house. 

There’s no way you can lift one of those chairs, especially after all you’ve been through, but the ottoman is smaller but still has sharp legs. You lift it and slam it against the glass wall. It shakes but not even a dent or a crack appears in front of you. You try again and nothing. You throw it helplessly but it makes no difference.

There’s no getting to the balcony, and even if there was, it’s a decent drop. You’re at least on the second floor of this house.

The property is expansive.

Even if you escape, there are no houses in the direct vicinity. You won’t be able to scream for help.

Okay. Think. Think..

There’s got to be a way out… 

There’s got to be a way…

You drop into one of the arm chairs and stare out at the land.

Any other time, you’d be thrilled to see so much green. So much beauty.

But not from the window of your new prison.

You’re trapped. 

By some kind of psychopathic stalker.

Your hands are shaking. Not just your hands, you realize. You’re shaking.

It appears the door to the house is your only way in or out of this room. And John is coming back. With your iron pills. It’s the only way out and you’re reluctant to try something so stupid again, especially just after you miserably failed to throw a damn punch at your captor. But you can’t stay here. You can’t.

So you stand next to the door. 

Maybe you can take him by surprise, you think. Throw him off his guard, off his balance for just a second. And maybe you’ll make it to an exit. A door, a window that can be fucking smashed. Anything.

The alternative is to stay and God only knows what will happen to you if you risk it.

You listen for sounds of footsteps and they come back.

There is a beep followed by another followed by a soft click as the door unlocks. It opens and you lunge forward but John throws out an arm, like he’s expecting this, leaning down so that it catches you around the waist.

Easily, he picks you up off the ground, kicking and swearing. He adjusts you, pulling you closer against him as he kicks the door shut.

The lock clicks back into place and you scream in defeat as John lifts you anew. Suddenly, you’re flying through the air and you land on the bed. It bounces under your wait and John raises an eyebrow at you.

“How did that go for you?” He asks softly and there it is again, that dark and dangerous edge to his voice that makes your very hair stand on end.

“Please, just let me go.” You beg, eyes welling with unshed tears. “Please, I won’t tell. No one will know, like you said. No one will have even known I was gone and I won’t tell anyone. Just let me--”

John climbs onto the bed, swinging a leg over your hips.

“I would stop suggesting I let you go before I fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for a week.”

That shuts you up.

He wouldn’t…

But even as you think it, your mind fills quickly with all the reasons he would.  _ Our bed _ .  _ You are home. I’m all you have _ .

You had felt his length against your ass earlier and now it’s against your stomach as he lays on top of you. Unmistakably hard.

“Good girl.” He praises, patting back your hair again. “Which is surprising considering how naughty you were when I was gone, huh? That glass you were trying to break is glass-clad polycarbonate. An AK-47 can’t penetrate that. Nothing short of an RPG could.”

“Why would you need that?” You can’t help but ask at the sheer ridiculousness of that entire wall.

“I have a lot of enemies.”

“No kidding.” And again, it spills from your lips before you can think better of it, “Stalking and kidnapping doesn’t make you any friends, huh? MMM!”

John shoves three fingers in your mouth, effectively shutting you up.

“Much better. You got a pretty mouth, Helen, but I think I prefer it when it’s otherwise occupied.” He presses down on her tongue, lightly, “Now be a good girl, and suck.”

When she resists, he pushes down harder, making her gag.

“You’re treading on thin ice, baby girl. Do you have to be asleep to suck on my fingers like the needy little girl you are?”

You freeze at the words, eyes widening.

Oh god, the dreams… the dreams you’d had all week, where you’d been sucking a nameless, faceless man off as he whispers to you how good a girl you are for him. Waking up and feeling an odd taste in your mouth, something dry on your face…

It wasn’t drool.

And it wasn’t a dream.

“Come on, now,” John coaxes, pistoning his fingers in and out of her mouth, “Be a good girl for me.”

He wants you to suck on his fingers. Apparently, you already had.

And you had woken up utterly soaked, often with your own hand down your underwear. You’d gotten yourself off, imagining sucking him off. Albeit, you didn’t know it was him.

Christ, had he seen you? Pleasuring yourself after waking up wet?

“I’ve been very patient with you,” John tells her and that edge is back in his voice, “And I’m not going to tell you again. Suck. My. Fingers.”

She stutters a breath around them but she sucks. She flattens her tongue against his long digits and she tightens her lips. 

John is looking down at her, a small smile appearing on his face as he watches. That edge in his expression is gone, she notes, curling her tongue around a finger. He looks almost relaxed, save for his dark eyes. 

He watches, still moving his fingers in and out of her mouth.

He grinds his hips into hers and her eyes widen in a moment of brief terror.

John hums softly, “Such a perfect little body.” He tells her, curling his fingers in her mouth and tilting her head to the side. He licks a stripe up her neck. “It was one of the first things I noticed about you that day on the train.”

_ The train?  _ You think. Fuck, was he on your commute? Was that how he found you, chose you?

You hadn’t seen him before, of that you were certain. You would have remembered seeing John. But he sure as hell had seen you.

You whimper around his fingers and John presses a kiss to your cheek.

“Good girl.” He says and drags his fingers from your mouth, leaving a trail of spit down your chin.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the bottle of iron pills. He knocks the cover and taps two out into his palm before closing it and tossing it to the side.. Without leaving your body, he reaches over to the bedside table and grabs the water.

“Here.”

He brings the pills past your outstretched hand and to your mouth.

Fuck. So this is how it's going to be.

You open your mouth and he smiles as he sets the pills on your tongue. He lifts your head, gently, in his hand and brings the water to your lips.

You swallow down the pills and John kisses your forehead.

Shivering, you close your eyes. You need to think of a way out. And fast. 


	4. Troy

By nightfall, you begin to wonder if you're really kidnapped or just in some strange episode of the twilight zone. Nothing feels entirely real and, despite John's comment about fucking you till you couldn’t walk, he had been surprisingly gentle.

When he went to make you lunch, he had offered you books or use of a projector television. With the push of the button, a white sheet rolled down from the ceiling across from the bed. His credit card information was already logged in and he told you to purchase anything you want.

That was his first mistake, you thought. You'd bought every movie and TV show you saw for a solid forty-five minutes. 

When he came up with lunch, he just smirked at you. 

"Don't stop on my account." He said, "Buy it all."

You assumed he was rich based on the room, the property, but that just stung.

He gave you a plate with eggs, bacon, and toast. The fork is plastic, the plate is paper. 

You wonder if that was purposeful, but you ate it regardless. You're hungry, your stomach growling at the smell. You weren’t exactly sure how long it had been since you last ate.

You had briefly considered refusing to eat at all but that, realistically, wasn’t an option. If you wanted to escape, you needed to keep your strength up. It also didn’t hurt that it looked fantastic.

You tried to ignore his eyes on you while you ate.

It's… distracting to say the least. You're not entirely sure what he hopes to learn by watching you eat but you doubt telling him to cut it the fuck out will help.

In fact, you're almost certain it will only get you into more trouble.

If that's even possible. 

When you finish eating, he takes your plate and fork.

"I have to run some errands." John says, "pick up a few things. Is there anything you'd like while I'm out?"

He’s leaving you alone?

Not that you were upset about it but he really went through all the trouble of kidnapping you just to leave after an hour of you being awake?

You shake your head and John steps closer. He tilts your face up towards him.

“Are you sure?” He asks carefully, “Any movies you would like? Or books? Music?”

“My phone plays music. Any chance I can get that?”

He smirks and pushes your head back down. He leans over and presses a kiss to the top of your head. 

“There are clothes in the closet. Some books under your bedside table. I’ll be back soon.”

He goes through the motions of leaving. His thumb print first, followed by the pin, followed by a scan of his eye.

It’s completely ridiculous.

Adding insult to injury, you hear the sound of a deadbolt being slammed into place from the outside.

You weren’t getting out of here.

You shiver at the thought.

He didn’t say how long he’d be gone but it didn’t really matter, you supposed, standing up from the bed to sit in one of the arm chairs. You turn it so that it faces outside before settling in.

Again, you were utterly struck by the view.

The rolling fields, the trees in the distance. Beneath you, you could make out a patio extending from the house. The patio literally had layers.

How fucking wealthy was this guy?

Was it old money? 

What the hell did he do that he could afford to stalk you and set up this torture chamber?

Were you the first? Or one of many?

That was the question that seemed to run through your mind. You felt like you were losing it.

Maybe you were?

Was this just a bizarre dream?

Maybe you would wake up in a few hours just to find that you were in your own bed, safe.

Somehow, though, you doubted that. 

You rise to your feet and stand at the window.

It could be worse, you think. You never imagined having a prison with a king sized bed or pillows. Or a TV.

But, it was still a prison.

He said he left you books.

That means on some twisted level he must care about your comfort. 

You shake your head at the thought. 

It was too fucked to process. 

A morbid curiosity brings you over to the far nightstand. The one on the side of the bed that you had woken up on. There is a small, cashmere blanket folded on top of the stand. You open the drawer and are surprised to find a leatherbound journal. You open it, finding it blank. There is a pen next to it and it looks odd. It’s thin with a slightly wide grip for writing. It bends under your hand.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” You murmur, watching it fold under your touch.

A fucking safety pen. 

You didn’t even know they made those.

What did John think? That you would stab him with a pen?

“Paranoid bastard.”

You kneel on the floor and look at the shelf under the top. There’s a dozen or so texts and… they’re all books you own. A few from your bedside table at home. One that you were sure had been on your coffee table. Another, on your shelf. 

You pick up the first, swearing as you did. It wasn’t your copy. There were no telltale signs of dog eared pages or worn covers. No, this was new. They all were, you noted. 

John had gone out and had bought copies of books you owned and put them here for you to find. 

To make you feel more at home?

To prove to you that had intruded upon your life?

You weren’t sure which was a worse conclusion.

There’s one book, however, that you don’t recognize as one of your own.

It stands out as the only book that doesn’t look brand new.

In fact, it looks old. The pages are crisp and golden, worn with time. The cover and binding, however, have been redone recently. You'd spent enough time around books to know that this was expertly rebound.

_ The Iliad. _

You’d read it in school. Everyone had, once upon a time, but it had been years since you had given more than an idle thought about the epic poem.

You rise to your feet and sit back on the bed.

_ Why this book? _

The rest, you understood. Even if you weren’t sure of his motive, the reasoning was clear but this…

You didn’t own this book. 

And like you are turning the puzzle piece, it clicks into place.

_ Helen. _

_ Oh, clever Helen. What gave it away? _

_ It’s alright, sweet Helen. _

_ Your name is Helen. _

_ Face it, sweet Helen, you’re alone, except for me _ .

Oh god.

You had wondered, at first, if this was some kind of grand mistake. If John thought you were someone else, if he had taken the wrong person.

But John was meticulous and careful.

He didn’t seem like the type to make such a large mistake.

He had taken you for a reason and, it seemed, 

Either he was a crazy bastard or he had an absurd sense of humor.

You aren’t sure which is worse.

You try to think back to school and the years spent working at the library to anything you knew about Greek mythology.

Helen of Troy.

Supposedly the most beautiful woman in the world. She was kidnapped by Paris… or was she gifted by goddesses? You rub at your temple, trying to remember. Either way, she was taken from Greece to Troy, where an epic war was staged in order for the Greeks to take her back home.

The picture was becoming clearer but you still feel as though you're missing details.

You're not unattractive but you're not exactly a beauty queen.

But John had bestowed the name Helen upon you and he had left you this book.

That meant something, even if you weren't sure what it was.

You lean back against the headboard and stretch out your legs, opening the book on your lap.

Perhaps the poem held clues.

The story itself might lead you to some answers.

Helen, she discovers, is mentioned by name fairly early in the text. She is mentioned by Hera, indirectly blaming her for the death of Achilles.

Helen’s husband, Menelaus, comes to try and take Helen back. Paris, her captor, reluctantly agrees to fight. He loses to the older king but is saved by Aphrodite, who delivers him to safety, then delivers Helen to him.

From Menelaus to Paris. One captor to another.

You finds a passage, delicately underlined in black pen.

_ “These, when the Spartan queen approach’d the tower, _

_ In secret own’d restless beauty’s power. _

_ They cried, “No wonder such celestial charms _

_ For nine long years have set the world in arms; _

_ What winning grace! What majestic mien!  _

_ She moves like a goddess, and she looks like a queen! _

_ Yet hence, O Heaven, convery that fatal face, _

_ And from destruction save the Trojan race.” _

What. The. Fuck.

You idly flipped through the rest, marking your place, and searching for any more marks from John. Finding none, you went back to where you had last been and continued to read, searching and hoping for any other clue to whatever was going on. 

You read, idly watching the sun start to sink in the sky.

Nothing seems to stand out and, considering Helen is the catalyst for the war that brings Troy to destruction, she is not mentioned all too often.

You’re on book eleven when you hear the deadbolt slide open. You close the book quickly and place it back on the shelf, where you found it, before leaning back onto the pillows.

There is a small beep and the door opens.

John carries a couple of bags into the room. He eyes you, silently, assessing it seems.

At first, you had wondered if he was crazy. You were still certain he was, but he had this seriousness about him. This edge that made you think that John knew  _ exactly _ what he was doing when it came to you. 

He sets the bags at the end of the bed and you try not to let your curiosity at what he had bought show. 

John reaches into his pocket and pulls out something familiar. You recognize your phone, your case and you shoot up to a sitting position.

Surely he wasn’t stupid enough to actually give you your phone?

“It’s been disabled.” John tells you before you can get too excited. “Wifi has been disconnected, you’ll no longer be able to send or receive calls to anyone. Except for me."

It was more than you expected.  "Can I still download music?"

"And books, and whatever apps you'd like. Under supervision."

Bullshit, but again, it could be worse.

"Thank you." You say, hating the way it just naturally falls from your lips. Almost as much as you hate the smug smile it wins you from John.

He hands you the phone and you unlock it. A few dozen apps are missing. Internet browsers and social media are gone. Email seems to be a thing of the past.

You flip through screens and sure enough, any app that allowed chatting or interaction of any kind were missing. Your calls were still there but they seemed to have been cleared of both of history and contacts.

Save one.

John Wick.

You had a last name.

Not that it did you any good. You still didn't have a way out and the change that John left you any possible connection to the outside world was slim.

Still, at least you had your music and the stupid little games that you loved so much. Your kindle.

_ I shouldn't be grateful for this _ , you think as you hold your phone protectively in your lap. He'd lost his right to get good deed credits when he kidnapped you.

A thought occurs to you, suddenly. Had John had your phone this whole time? Or had he gone back to get it?

He had only been gone a handful of hours, you think. 

If he had been to your apartment, that meant you weren't too far from home. You might still even be in New York.

"Did you go to my apartment?"

He doesn't answer, not that you're truly expecting him to. 

Instead, gestures to the bags and gruffly says, "I picked up a few things for you. Feel free to put them away. I'm going to go heat up dinner."

He approaches and you try not to stiffen as he bends down. He kisses your head softly and then disappears again. Only when he leaves do you breathe.

You wait a moment, wondering if he'll come before you open the first bag. Inside, there's a soft, satin bathrobe. A towel hair wrap. Despite the small collection in the bathroom, there are more bath bombs as well.

You open the second bag and find house slippers, soft and lined with some sort of fluff.

They're luxurious.

The same bag also has a few dozen socks with grips.

No shoes, though. Nothing you could manage to run in, but they would keep you warm.

You kind of want to leave them out just because John implied you should put them away but you remember his earlier comment about there being clothes in the closet.

You have no interest in wearing anything John picked for you, but that didn't mean that you weren't curious.

You go over to the closet, one of the only places you hadn't explored. It's a walk in with several dozen suits hanging on one side, idly adding to John Wick’s intrigue.

What the fuck did he do that he could afford to live like this, dress like that, and kidnap strange women?

But you find that you’re unable to think too much on it when you see the other side. 

“Ho-ly fuck.”

The opposite side of the closet is lined with dresses, skirts, sweaters.

You drop the bags just inside the closet doors and walk over to the outfits. They all look brand new, although there are no tags. You check the sizes and they match your own.

The dresses range in style. A handful are ridiculously formal but most range from casual to business-like. A few resembled dresses you owned and had worn to work.

Aside from the formal wear in the back, they all seemed to match your personal style.

Had John picked them out himself?

There’s a bureau under the sweaters and you open the top drawer. 

Lingerie, in all colors and styles glare up at you.

Yeah, you think. John had definitely picked them out.

You close the drawer and check the next one. More lingerie. 

Awesome.

The third drawer has a few casual, but classy shirts and blouses. Again, all things you actually would wear, but nothing that you owned. The final drawer has jeans and slacks, again, all in your size.

How much money had he blown on all this bullshit?

And what did he intend them for? What was the point of it all?

“Do you like them?” John’s voice startles you.

Christ, you hadn’t heard the door, let alone his footsteps. You hand rests over your heart as it races.

“Jesus."

It occurs to you that, given your current situation, there really isn't anything more frightening than John but you're still relieved that it's only him.

"Do you like them?" John asks again. He really is overly focused.

You're not entirely sure what to say to that as you rise to your feet.

_ The clothes are lovely. Where the fuck is the key to this prison? _

“They’re stunning.” You admit, “But I have clothes.”

He says nothing, his face resuming that blankness.

"I have a life and I don't want to be locked away."

"You won't be locked away forever."

"So you're gonna let me go?"

Nothing. He says nothing and you feel that well of desperation opening inside of you.

"Say something!" You scream, "anything! Tell me what you're going to do to me!"

Silence meets you.

Endless possibilities of horrors await and you just want to understand this. You just want to know, regardless of the answer. 

"Why me?" Your voice breaks.

You don’t expect an answer and he doesn’t give you one. He just fucking stands there, watching you. He looks on and there’s a tightness to his face that makes you think you _ might _ have pissed him off.

Good. Because he pissed you the fuck off when he kidnapped you and locked you away.

Bastard.

You open your mouth to call him such but in two steps, he closes the distance between you. You barely see him move, just a quick blur as he pushes you into the bureau, a hand around your throat. He doesn’t cut off your air like he had when he took you, but he squeezes, reminding you again where the power lies. 

“Because you’re mine.” He growls, pushing your head to the side. “ _ Mine _ .”

He releases you and you steady yourself against the bureau.

And then, like nothing had happened, he asks, “Are you hungry?”

Whip-fucking-lash.

Wick-lash.

You nearly giggle at the thought and wonder if you’re already going crazy.

He guides you out of the closet. There’s a take out container on the bed and John picks it up and goes to sit in one of the chairs near the balcony. He opens it.

Chicken parmesan on a bed of penne. Your favorite.

He really was the worst.

John takes a knife out of his pocket and begins to cut the chicken into pieces.

As much as you hate it, you understand. He'd be an idiot to give you a knife.

"Come here." He says and you hesitate. You hate having to cow to him but John holds your gaze, "That independent streak is real cute. Bet your ass will look real cute, too, when I beat it red."

Fuck.

"You got thirty seconds to bring that pretty little ass over here and sit down.. Otherwise, I'm going toss this out and make you to eat something else for dinner."

_ Fuck _ .

You walk over to him and sit a foot away, your back against the bed.

"Right here." He indicates the spot between his open legs. 

You want to think he can't be serious but he is. You know he is and you really don't want to deal with his consequences just yet so you crawl between his legs.

"Good girl." He calls you, feeding you a piece of chicken as you sit between his legs.

Your cheeks are stained red as you open your mouth to accept his offering. Have you ever felt so humiliated?

But you swallow and accept the next bite. And the next. And then another.

And John watches you, a small smile on his lips and, for the first time, you let yourself wonder about your captor.

Who the hell is he?

Why was he doing this?

And was he actually crazy or just evil?

That thought sends a shiver down your spine and you find yourself hoping for crazy. Crazy can be confused, maybe even tricked. But your gut tells you that John might be a little harder to manipulate.

John finished feeding you dinner and wipes the corner of your mouth with a napkin.

"Perfect." He assesses with a subtle leer. "Look like such a pretty girl down on your knees."

Again, the humiliation burns in your stomach. Now that the hunger has disappeared, there's regret.

Maybe you should have refused dinner. Refused to get down on your knees or argued to only eat sitting in the chair.

Your thoughts are interrupted as John reaches down to cup your chin and force your face upward. 

"What do you say?"

Oh, he's got to be kidding.

But his grip tightens after you pause, "I provided for you. I fed you. What. Do. You. Say?"

Fuck you.

"Th-thank you."

Again, that self-hatred makes you nearly dizzy. But what can you do when he literally holds all the power?

His grip loosens and his hand pushes back, caressing your cheek in a gesture that might seem loving coming from another. 

"You are so welcome, love."

John leans does and presses his lips to yours in a surprisingly soft kiss. For a moment, you almost forget where you are as your eyes flutter shut.

He sighs against you as his tongue swipes against your lips, opening your mouth. Oh...

When were you last kissed? You're not certain you remember but it certainly didn't feel like this…

No. This is wrong.

You open your eyes and push against him. John doesn't let up, grabbing a fistful of hair to hold you in place.

You know its a bad idea, even before you do it, but what choice do you have?

Your teeth sink into his tongue and John yanks your head back. Your head burns as he tugs against your hair, pulling you off your knees until your head is level with his.

"Strike three.” He says and, before you can think, you’re thrown across his lap

Oh, fuck.

John makes quick work of your pajama pants, ripping them around your ass and down your legs until you’re bared to him.

“Didn’t want to do this to you,” John says, his hand rubbing at your bare ass. “Didn’t want to have to hurt you at all but you’re not giving me a choice.”

You have a sharp intake of breath as the anticipation starts to build. There’s no question to what he’s going to do but his hand just keeps circling your ass, your thighs.

_ Smack _ . The first hit is enough to make your breath escape you, and it is followed by three more quick slaps.

It stings and then it burns and it  _ hurts. _

“Simple rules, Helen.” He says, punctuating his words with another slap to each cheek, “You’re a good girl, you get rewarded. You’re a bad girl, you get punished. You knew the rules.” He slaps down again and again, unyielding in his efforts.

“It’s almost like you wanted to get punished. Was that it?”

“N-no.” You manage to gasp out.

“No?” He questions, “Can you just not help it? Are you a bad girl?”

A whimper falls from your lips pathetically and, ch rist, you think it wouldn’t have been so bad to kiss him. His lips were soft and he had been gentle, almost sweet and now…

His hand falls again, and it hurt to begin with but now your ass is sensitive from his previous slaps. The sting makes you shake but John shows no mercy.  _ Smack, smack, smack, smack. _

But even through his attack, you find yourself on edge. Yes, it hurts and each strike is brutal but it’s not as bad as you would have imagined. It hurts but your body is reacting to it. You feel your breasts go taught, your nipples are hard and far too sensitive against your night shirt. And you feel your pussy clench involuntarily.

“Asked you a question, Hel. Are you a bad girl?”

_ Fuck _ .

His hand has stopped slapping and has resumed the gentle rubbing over your ass.

“No.” You whisper.

John hums, softly, “No. I didn’t think so.”

You feel his hand slide down your thigh and back up and your body braces itself in anticipation.

“Are you ready to be my good girl, again?”

Your heart is pounding and you’re not sure what your supposed to do with this. What happens if you say yes, what happens if you say no…

Actions and consequences and, until you can actually formulate an escape, you are under his control.

If you say no, you could subject yourself to more of the same or a much worse punishment.

A yes could land you anywhere and you don’t know enough about him to make any sort of guess as to where this will go.

For now, your decisions mean nothing. You are his toy.

“Yes.” You say and it’s so soft you wonder if he can even hear you.

“Yeah.” John says, hoisting you up so you are no longer laying on his lap. He sits you down, facing him, forcing your knees on either side of him.

He examines your face, a bit red from lying across his lap with your ass in the air.

He runs two fingers along your lower lip and you know how this is supposed to go. You wonder if its a test of sorts but you do what he wants and part your lips. John slides the fingers inside and you suck at the digits, just as you had earlier.

“There’s my good girl.” John says, watching you with a smile. “You took your punishment so well. Do you know what to say now?”

He removes his fingers and you hazard a guess at what he’s looking for, hoping it doesn’t land you in more trouble. “Thank you?”

“For what?”

“Th-thank you for punishing me?”

John growls softly but you get the idea its in delight rather than anger.

“Did so fucking good.” John says, shaking his head. “And what do good girls get?”

“Rewarded?”

He hums and his hand comes to rest on your knee. It slides up along your thigh and, it occurs to you that you aren’t wearing pants or underwear anymore. Those are on the floor.

John’s hand slides to your inner thigh, his nails gently grazing the flesh, passing the apex of your legs.

You almost breathe a sigh of relief until his hands disappear under your shirt.

His fingers are calloused, rough against your stomach, rubbing at your skin with a morbid fascination before he pulls the top up.

If you slap him away or resist, you’ll likely end up right where you were earlier. Back to the punishment and it could easily be worse.

Not that this was exactly good.

Fuck.

You let the shirt rise over your head and John tosses it to the side. Leaving you naked, on his lap.

His eyes darken and you shiver under his gaze.

"My sweet, good girl." He says, placing a hand on your shoulder and dragging it to your breast. His fingers explore, circling your tender flesh. He teases your nipple, bringing it to being fully erect under his touch. He does the same to the other breast, watching with such careful focus.

His hands cover your breasts experimentally and he squeezes them, testing the feel. You suck in a breath at the contact and feel your pussy clench.

Fuck, you couldn't actually be turned on by this, could you?

John smirks, knowingly, and teases your nipples with his thumb.

"Do you like my hands, Helen?"

The name throws you, reminding you through the little burst of pleasure where you are and who you're dealing with.

Fuck.

"Answer ml." And there's that edge of authority, like if you don't answer, he's going to throw you back over his knee. Or worse.

“Yes.”

“There’s my good girl.” John whispers and you try to look away. The moment your head turns, his hand is on your face, forcing you to look back at him.

Forcing you to watch his face as he stops his attention to your chest. Instead, he’s staring at you intently. It’s unnerving, being under such scrutiny.

_ What is he doing _ ? You wonder.  _ Why has he stopped? Is he done? _

You doubted that, as much as you hoped it was true.

You’re really not sure what to do. His gaze would have been intimidating were you not kidnapped, stripped naked, and sitting on his lap. Throw that into the equation and it was really a miracle you hadn’t passed out.

But what is he waiting for?

For you?

And if so, to do what?

Fuck, you’re at a loss of what to do and John seems to revel at your confusion as he takes his fingers and slides them to your opening. You open your mouth, unsure if a protest will actually fall from your lips, when he shoves his fingers up inside of you.

A gasp falls and John just smiles, using his other hand to wrap around your hips and he tugs your closer. 

His fingers are thick and long, stretching you open.

You wonder, briefly, if you should have just taken the punishment, before John curls his fingers and a sharp moan escapes from your lips. He smirks triumphantly as he continues to tease your inside.

You hate him all the more for every moment of pleasure he soaks you in.

John is watching you, you realize, taking in your movements, the changes in expression as he stimulates you. Noting every change. Studying you.

Learning you.

Is this what he did before he took you?

And, as if John can sense that you're starting to think too hard, his grip around you tightens and he lifts you up, fingers still buried deep inside of you. He stands and takes the two steps to the bed. He lowers the two of you down to the mattress with a surprising amount of tenderness.

"Doing so well, love," his fingers curl again and his thumb reaches up to toy with your clit. You can't help but to whimper, trying to close your legs together to subdue the pleasure he's making you feel.

"Uh-uh." He pushes your legs back open and slides down your body and… no, he can't be…

John buries his face in your pussy, his tongue flicking against your clit.

You bite your lip to keep the cries to yourself but a sharp bite to your bundle of nerves makes you nearly scream. “Don’t even think about stifling those sounds, love, or I’ll give you something to scream about.” 

Fuck.

You force yourself not to bite your lip as John licks at you again. A gasp escapes you as you stutter on your breath. His tongue swirls around your clit, teasingly. He sucks it between his lips and gently strokes it with tongue before pushing his face down. 

His head moves, harshly against your center. His tongue alternates between little flicks and long, agonizing licks. His beard scratches at you and you nearly want to cry because he feels good and he shouldn’t feel good. He should get to make you feel good. 

Bastard.

His fingers have been inside you, unmoving as he gets used to exploring your center but he curls them inside of you and you can’t help but moan.

You can feel his face contorting into a smile against you and he continues to lap at your center as he rolls his fingers around inside of you. They slide out and back in and your hands clench into the bedding around you.

This isn’t fair, but fuck, it feels so good. So fucking good. Between his long, thick fingers and his tongue, he has you whimpering like a bitch in heat. He’s bringing you higher and higher, you feel your stomach tighten as the familiar signs of an impending orgasm rise and John slows his pace, teasingly.

“Beg.”

Fuck. No.

You'd take a punishment over having to ask him for anything.

You shake your head and John rubs his thumb against your clit, fingers pistoning slowly in and out of your tight heat. His thumbs flies across your bundle of nerves, teasing you and driving you straight back towards that desperate need.

“So stubborn.” John murmurs, with almost a taunting tone. "That's alright. We'll see how long you can last."

No, no, no… its not supposed to be a competition. Its not supposed to be like this at all.

He drives you to the edge with his fingers, his lips, his tongue. And every time, he brings you to that precipice. And then he pulls you back from the ledge.

You're soaking, panting with desperation. John pushes a third finger inside of you and ifs almost enough to make you come undone but he stops toying with your clit before you can break over the edge.

"Naughty girl." With one hand buried inside you, he uses the other to slap at your clit.

And  _ that  _ nearly brings you to coming undone. He slows, lowering you back down and a cry of need escapes you.

"You want to come, you have to beg."

Tears well in your eyes. You want to come, desperately but not with him. Not by his hands. 

You won't beg, you tell yourself. You won't be reduced to that. Eventually, he'll get tired or bored. You'd never been with a man who could stomach foreplay for too long.

You'll be strong.

But God, he feels so good.

Your toes start to curl and your breath hitches.

"You've lasted almost an hour." He tells you and you think that can't possibly be right. No way. It felt like hours and hours of being tormented and teased in an endless wave that just won't break.

You feel his hand tighten. His fingers grip you from the inside while his thumb runs your clit. That familiar warmth fills you and you cling to it, wondering if you can break over the edge before he stops his pace and…

It defeats the purpose of not coming by his hand but fuck, you're not sure how much more of this you can take.

And John doesn't seem to be getting tired. If anything, he seems amused by your stubbornness. 

He adds to the pressure on your clit and you cry out,  _ so fucking close _ .

You look down and John is watching you, a small smirk on his face as he releases your clit before you can come.

A whimper escapes you, "Too much. Its too much."

"You know how to make it stop." John says, "although I'm tempted to keep you on edge till sunrise. You look so pretty when you're desperate."

God, that was even worse.

Begging him to let you come.

Giving in to his perverted desire.

Or letting this torment continue all night. You're not sure you could take it if this is how you felt already.

"No, please!"

He nips at your thigh with his teeth. His fingers curl just short of your g-spot.

"You want me to make you come?"

Bastard, he knows you do.

"Yes!" You can't even bring yourself to feel guilty at the neediness in your tone.

"Say it."

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Let me come."

"Beg."

You whimper as a single finger rolls over the spot.

"Please, let me come. Please."

"There's my good girl." He taunts and you want to cry because he's still not moving. Still not touching you, forcing you to remain in limbo. "My mouth or my hand?" 

He wants you to choose?

Forcing you to participate in this sick, twisted game. Fuck.

But you're too desperate to focus on his reasoning. You just want this to be over. To finally get the release he's kept from you…

"Your mouth."

He says nothing but bows his head towards your pussy. His fingers reach inside of you, rolling against that one spot as his tongue finds its way, again, to your sore clit.

He'd been holding back, you realize, as a cry escapes you again. His tongue shows you no mercy as he flicks it and swirls it over and around you. He sucks on you, hungrily, as his hand quickens its pace.

You're seeing stars and you're still climbing higher and higher.

A low groan comes from John as he buries his face deeper into your pussy.

You feel your back arch as the pleasure builds to a peak. Your hips are rolling up against his face and John digs his free hand into your ass, holding you closer as he swallows you down.

You break apart, screaming out but John doesn't let up.

Not for a second. 

Through your orgasm, he keeps going. He runs circles around your clit, sucking greedily and as you should be coming down, you're rising back up. Her feet and back dig into the bed as he wrings a second orgasm from your body and collapse into a heap on the bed.

Panting, and exhausted, you feel yourself start to shake.

Too much. It was all too much to suddenly wake up to this and these expectations and rules thrown upon you. His punishments, his rewards.

You hadn't even noticed John moving from between your legs but, suddenly, he is over you, sucking his cum-soaked fingers in his mouth one by one.

You can't catch your breath and he isn't even breathing hard.

He leans to the side and pulls you into his arms. He reaches down and finagles the blankets up so that they cover you both.

His cock is hard in his pants, resting against your ass.

You're struck by the humiliation of being kept naked, being used by John while he remains fully dressed. But what really strikes you is that he is still hard as he wraps you up in his arms. 

He could have fucked you.

And he probably could have made you beg for his cock.

But he hadn't. 

Rationalizing his actions, however, was pointless. John didn't seem to have a method in his madness.

He presses a kiss to the back of your head and you close your eyes tight. 

Exhaustion consumes you and you're idly aware that, as you drift to sleep, you could still feel your own slick on your thighs.


	5. Information

You wake up warm and cozy, feeling more well-rested than you have in weeks. The bed is soft under you and a gentle weight is draped over your side. Your back is flush against what feels like a personal heater. A sprinkling of hair and a hot body, holding you protectively.

Your eyes fly open as you jolt to consciousness, the events of the previous day flooding your memory.

John.

It wasn’t a dream, it was a nightmare and you were living it.

You try to wiggle out of his arms but his grip only tightens, drawing you back against him.

“Good morning.” John says gruffly, his voice still heavy from sleep.

For a brief instant, you consider telling him to go fuck himself. However, given the precarious nature of your undress and his previous reactions to  _ misbehavior _ , you decide against it. 

You've tried to act against him. It landed you with a dozen blows to your ass and three fingers stretching you open as he tormented you with his tongue. Until you begged him to let you come.

Perhaps a different avenue was needed.

The fact remains, you couldn't get out of this room without John. You needed to cooperate enough that he would take you out of the bedroom. Maybe there was a way out that wasn’t locked somewhere else in the house…

Maybe you could get to John’s phone, call the police…

This could all be over if you just pretended to cooperate.

What else could he do to you?

He’d already locked you away, violated you, humiliated you...

“Morning,” You softly say back.

"How did you sleep?"

"Good."

You hate that your answer isn't a lie.

John places a hand along your jaw, turning your face back as he leans over you. His lips gently press against yours in a soft kiss before kissing your forehead.

He pushes to a sitting position. "What would you like for breakfast, love?"

You start to sit up and remember your state of undress. You tug the blanket up to your chest as John stands. He had stripped down for bed and was wearing only a pair of boxers.

It was the first time you had seen him so bared.

It was no surprise that he could manhandle you the way he did. His body was lean, yet muscular. At the beach or the gym, you probably would have caught yourself ogling.

His back was covered in tattoos and a few lined his arms as well.

Large, bold letters bragged  _ fortis fortuna adjust.  _ Latin.

Fortune favors the strong. 

Of course.

"What do you have?" You ask, absently as you study him.

He slips into the closet, listing, "eggs, pancakes, cereal, toast."

"Eggs, please."

The please slips out naturally and he rewards you with a flash of a smile as he steps back into the room, shrugging on a white shirt. He's also tossed on a pair of sweatpants. 

No one should have the right to look that good scrubbed out.

Yet he really does.

Bastard.

"Bacon? Toast?"

You nod and he comes over, leaning down to kiss your head again.

"I'll be up soon."

The moment the deadbolt slides into place, you clamber out of bed and search for your clothes from last night. They're no longer on the floor which means John probably took them whenever he got up to change. 

Unsure where they are, you proceed to the closet.

You suppose it was a good thing. John would probably prefer you in the clothes he had provided. Maybe it might help tempt him to bring you downstairs.

You quickly pick out a grey sweater and a pair of jeans, as well as mismatched lingerie. It was subtle but the last thing you wanted was John taking anything as a sexual pass.

You hurry to the bathroom, turning the water on for a quick shower. Just to scrub yourself clean after last night.

You waste no time, using the soap and hygiene products provided. You're trying to establish some sort of rapport with John, which means following his rules. For now. Which meant showering with the bathroom door open. For now.

It’s a shame, too. He has a large, spacious shower with an overhead spout that feels like heavy rainfall pouring down on you. In an ideal situation, you might have spent hours under it.

Instead, you rush to dry off and dress.

You hear the door open and yank the sweater over your head and pull your wet hair out. You walk back to the main room and, just like yesterday, John has breakfast. Two plates on a tray along with two mugs and a glass with something pink. A smoothie? He sets them down on the ottoman between the arm chairs.

John glances up as you come out, his eyes darkening at the sight of you in the clothes he picked out. You flush, involuntarily, as he gives you an approving nod.

“You look gorgeous.”

The clothes fit perfectly, the jeans hanging to your every curve. The sweater is as soft as it looked. You probably would have picked it out yourself if you were the kind of person who had superfluous funds to spend on little luxuries like nice clothes.

"Thank you."

You take the seat across from him, folding your legs beneath you.

He hands you the coffee which you accept. The mug has a daisy, your favorite flower. A coincidence? At this point, you doubt it..

You sip at it, testing the temperature and blink in surprise.

"Is this a vanilla latte?"

"Yes."

"You have an espresso machine?"

"I do now."

The implication is clear. He knows your coffee order and he’s taken steps to provide it for you.

The words fall from your mouth before you can stop them, “How long have you been stalking me?”

John leans back in his chair, just watching you with a raised eyebrow. What you wouldn’t give to know what was going on his head. Is he annoyed? Amused? Pissed?

“Are we not supposed to talk about it?” You ask and there’s just a little bit of a condescending tone that nearly makes you wince as it hits your ears.

Hadn’t you decided to try to get out of this damn room by behaving?

But John’s face softens, “Would you feel better if we talked about it?”

Probably not but you shrug, “It might.”

John nods, almost thoughtfully, “I won’t promise to answer every question.”

You’re surprised that he gives that much. Eagerly, you sit up and nod, “Okay.”

“I understand that this is new.” He continues, “That this must be a difficult adjustment. And I’ll admit, I wasn’t fully prepared to bring you home.”

_ That  _ was new information.

You open your mouth to ask what, exactly, his plan had been but John holds up a finger.

“I’ll answer your questions. After you eat.”

Fine by you. 

You grab the toast and start eating, as quickly as you can without making yourself sick. You mentally prepare a list of questions that you want answered. John eats with you, for the first time, though you eat in silence. John seems content to eat and watch you.

You try to ignore the self-conscious tugs that you feel under his scrutiny.

Between the smoothie and the toast, you’re already full before you even try the eggs. When you can’t eat any more, you look up at John expectantly. He’s still eating but he nods to you, pausing to say, “Go ahead.”

“How long did you watch me?”

He swallows a bite of toast, “A week.”

“And that was long enough to make a decision to take me?”

John looks almost amused at that, “I knew you were mine the first day.”

_ Oooookay,  _ you think.

"How?"

He doesn't say anything. Not wanting to push your luck, you move on. So you ask another question that's been burning in your mind.

"What exactly do you do, John?"

You take a sip of your latte and John gives the closest thing to a smile that you have seen. It's staggering and you're grateful, suddenly, that you are sitting because  _ damn. _

"I don't think you're ready for that conversation."

And what the fuck does that mean?

"Do you know how a conversation works, John?"

His lips twitch.

"I say something, then you respond."

"I did respond. You just didn't like my answer."

"That wasn't an answer." You argue, "at best, it was an evasion. Do you really think your answer is going to be worse than waking up in a strange place, tied to a bed?"

"Yes."

Jesus fucking Christ.

"I'm pretty sure nothing you do could surprise me at this point. Unless you say kindergarten teacher. That would genuinely shock me."

He considers it, for a moment, that small smile lingering on his face.

"I'm an assassin."

Huh.

You wonder, for a moment, if he's joking. An elaborate scheme where you're getting punked. Because, nope, you definitely hadn't been kidnapped by an assassin.

But here you are, locked in an elaborate prison.

"You're serious?" You ask, just to be sure, and John nods.  _ Oh. _ . 

Idly, you wonder if you’ll have your own lifetime movie.

It doesn’t scare you the way you think it should. You already knew he was capable of some terrifying feats and you were pretty sure that he didn’t go through all this just to kill you. He could have done that a thousand different ways by now if that was his intent.

“How does one become an assassin?”

“It’s what I was trained for.”

You lean forward with a slight sigh, “You’re really good at answering questions without actually saying a damn thing.”

Again, John’s lips twitch. "I apologize. I’m not used to… open-ended discussions.”

“What does that mean?”

“Typically, when I speak, it’s to make a point. To gain information. I’m not used to small talk.”

Small talk?

He had kidnapped you and was holding you captive and he thought this was  _ small talk? _

“I’ll--” He hesitates, “Try to do better.”

“Thank you.” You say. It’s a small step but if you’re able to get him to talk, develop that rapport… maybe it would get you out of this room. This house. Get you the opening for escape.

“I was raised in a Romani orphanage until I was about eight.”

What. The. Fuck.

You hadn’t known what to expect but what the actual fuck.

“The orphanages were overcrowded and some of us were sent to the United States, where many of our tribe had emigrated and were running a special sort of school for assassins.”

You realize your mouth is open and you close it. Is he serious? He doesn’t seem like the kind who lies but holy fuck. Nearly every word out of his mouth has you shaken to your core and confused, yet again.

And this is supposed to be helping you to get out of here.

Instead, your heartstrings are being tugged by the mental image of a lonely, little John being forced to hold a gun.

“You started training to be an assassin when you were eight?”

John nods, “Around there. Didn’t really have a way to keep track of when I was born or how much time had passed.”

You’re not sure which is worse: the fact he  _ literally _ didn’t know his age or the fact that, regardless of how old he had been, he had practically been a baby. Just a little kid.

You notice the rise in empathy spilling through you. No. No. A shitty childhood isn't an excuse for kidnapping and taking advantage of you the way he had.

But it wasn't as if he really knew better. Raised in an orphanage until he was sent to a school for assassins?

He must have been so scared.

_ Stop it _ .  _ This is your captor. _

You sip at your latte as the silent stretches out.

It wasn't the same, you think, but maybe if you can compare what you're going through now to what he went through...

"That must have been scary." You say softly.

John only shrugs, "I preferred it. I got a cot when I moved to New York. And we had heat in the winter."

_ Oh.  _

“Still, you were so young.”

John shrugs his shoulders, “Didn’t know anything else. I spent the first eight years of my life fighting for food. I spent the next few years fighting for survival.”

“And then?”

“I ran away.” He stops talking then, as if reconsidering, continues, “I was somewhere in my early teens and I got tired of the training and the competition and I left.”

“Where did you go?”

“I snuck on a train to California. Then hitchhiked to Mexico. I lived there for a couple of years. No child labor laws so I was able to work.”

“Doing what?”

“Farming, but only for a couple of years. The, uh, village I lived in was razed to the ground.”

Again, you’re staring in disbelief at him and yet… you can’t help but believe him. Which is ridiculous because the man who kidnapped you really isn’t someone you feel like you can trust, but his tone, the way that he’s saying all this… it’s so matter of fact.

At the very least, John believes whatever he’s saying.

“After that, I kind of went back to wandering.” He looks down, almost bashfully and that’s just too much to handle. 

He’s the bad guy. 

This would be so much easier if he laughed maniacally or yelled and screamed at you. 

Softly, you ask “Where did you go?”

He shrugs before looking up. He opens his mouth and then closes it. “Mexico had been… dangerous. And without the safety of my village, I couldn’t really stay anymore. Everyone… so many people died that day.”

His voice is heavy with emotion and you have to dig your hand into the arm of the chair to stop you from reaching out.

God, this is so fucked up.

“I went north. By then, I could pass for eighteen. I ran weapons in LA for a few months, until I saved enough to get fake papers and IDs. And then I joined the Marines.”

Just when you think he’s going to zig, he zags. 

“I didn’t mind it. Gave me food, housing. And their training regime was almost laughable compared to what I was doing as a kid. You didn’t get beat if you fucked up.”

You need to change the subject. And fast. Because right now, all you want to do is fly across and hug him the way someone should have when he was a kid. The worst part was he wasn't even trying to get sympathy points; he didn’t seem socially adept enough to do that.

You need to remember where you are.

“Is that how you ended back as an assassin?”

An assassin. Your kidnapper is an  _ assassin _ . You need to remember that. To focus on the bigger picture and not the heartbreaking backstory.

You don’t  _ care _ , you tell yourself. 

“No. I mean, it helped me become a more efficient killer…”

You have to resist the urge to punch the air because  _ yes _ . This is what you need to focus on.

“... but I became an assassin after I was discharged. By then, I was older and stronger than when I watched my village burn down. I went after the people who did it. I killed them all.” He seems to be looking at you, gauging for some sort of reaction. You don’t give him one and he continues, “It so happened that the same men who killed everyone twelve years earlier were holding someone for questioning. Another assassin. He brought me back into the fold.”

“The fold?” You say, “So there are others?”

“If you’re referring to assassins, yes. Thousands in New York, alone.”

You blink, “That can’t be right. How is there that much work?”

“Believe me,” John says, and his face has taken on that serious demeanor, “There’s an entire world that you don’t know about that lurks just beneath the surface.”

“A world of assassins?” You ask doubtfully, “It sounds like something out of a dystopian story.”

He shakes his head, “You have no idea how terrible and awful it actually is out there.’

_ I have some idea _ , you think. But bringing that up might not be your best move.

John reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone. He quickly enters a password and shifts through screens until he turns it towards you. He sets it on the ottoman between you and scrolls down.

A list of names come up, followed by denominations. Some have a little star next to them but you can’t make much out as John quickly scrolls through the options.

“What is this?” You ask.

“Open contracts. Just in the city. I can narrow it by borough or expand it to the tristate area.” He goes back a page and pulls up filters.

You swallow as you note that he can sort it by proximity, payout, or preferred method of killing.

“Those are the contracts that are currently open. Tomorrow, many of these will be done and more will have been added.”

He goes back another page and chooses his own profile.

Another list of names and denominations come up and he scrolls down to highlight just how many there are. It’s nowhere near as expansive of the first list but there must be more than a dozen.

“These are all contracts that I have been, personally, asked to take.”

Fuck.

“I’ll admit, I probably have been asked to take more than the average assassin but you need to understand. This is real. We may have existed in the same city, but we come from very different worlds.”

You set down the, now empty, latte mug on the ottoman, leaning forward as you do. “Then why take me?”

John pulls back his phone and sets it in his pocket. You wonder if, given enough time, you could figure out his passcode. Break in. Call for help.

“It was too dangerous for you.”

“For me?” You question, “Out of the two of us, I lived in the safer world.”

“Safety is relative.” He waves a hand as if that’s obvious, “And it doesn’t account for chaos.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That anything can happen. All it takes is one misplaced bullet. An instant of being caught in crossfire.”

Okay, sure. Chaos and randomness were part of life. Not all that unusual in the grand scheme of things. But his argument was that the world was too dangerous for you so he pulled you away from it?

“I could also choke to death in this room. Or a nuclear bomb could hit New York and wipe us out. I could get sick. Things happen, John.”

He shakes his head, “I watched you, Helen.” You resist the urge to shiver at the name. “I watched you reading on the subway, not paying attention to anyone around you. You lived in a building where the front door didn’t even  _ lock _ . You were practically asking for trouble. Anyone could have found you!”

_ Anyone did _ .

“There’s no reason anyone would go after me!”

“But that’s where you’re wrong. And, believe me, I’m grateful that you don’t see the world the same way I do, but there will always be people who seek to destroy beautiful things.”

You try to ignore his assessment and the way his words make your heart stutters in your chest.

There should be a rule that kidnappers couldn't be charming.

You swallow and shift uncomfortably, “So this is the solution? Just locking me away from the rest of the world?”

He looks almost exasperated and you wonder if you should just quit now, while you’re ahead. You’ve already learned more than you ever expected to.

"The locking away is not forever." John says, “Just until you’ve adjusted to your new life.”

“There was nothing wrong with my old life!” spills out before you can think better of it.

His nostrils flare, “Your cupboards were bare. Coffee was your breakfast and you barely ate lunch. Basically no survival instincts, living in a building that couldn’t have been easier to break into. Still over a hundred grand in debt from college--”

“How the fuck do you know that?” You ask. You knew he had been in your home but the way he says it, the things he knows...

John tilts his head to the side, “Your banking is on your phone. It’s not exactly secure.”

You look down, pushing your hair back, “Jesus.”

“It’s paid off.”

That causes you to look up, blinking in surprise.  “What?”

“Your debt. It’s paid off.”

“What, you just had a hundred grand laying around?”

He shoots you a look because, of course he did. Probably didn’t even blink an eye at the sum that was keeping you living in said unsecure apartment and skipping meals a few times a week.

_ Why?  _ You wonder. Because kidnappers shouldn’t give a damn about debt. Big picture, it was inconsequential, but he had gone through the trouble of figuring out your account and wiring money.  _ Why? _

John Wick is an enigma.

You’re never quite sure which way he’s going to go and then he goes and pulls things like this.

There’s a look of concentration on his face, like he’s trying to find the right thing to say. Ironic, you think, because there isn’t anything right he can say short of, “Here’s the key.”

Instead, he exhales, “I know this isn’t easy. I wish I could have prepared more but even then… you’re stubborn as hell.”

You think back to earlier, when he had offered a similar sentiment, “You said you hadn’t planned on taking me yet.”

“No.” He agrees, “I hadn’t. Although I’m not upset that I did. Even with the lock that you replaced, it was making me very anxious thinking of you alone in that building for any amount of time. I’ll admit you impressed me, there. I know you hadn’t seen me.”

"I felt you." You admit, "watching me. Always just out of sight. I felt like I was losing my mind."

"For that, I am sorry."

And now he was apologizing? Albeit not for kidnapping you, but for the manner in which he haunted you. It was more than you were expecting, although considering your position, the bar was undeniably low.

"Thank you." You say softly.

He smiles at you approvingly.

Rules and consequences, you muse. You've done something right, in John's eyes.

Of course, his version of a reward involved him teasing you with his fingers and tongue for an hour until you begged him to let you come.

The fact you've never come harder in your life was a thought you were saving to discuss with a therapist, if you ever make it out of here.

You wondered how much sex played into all this. Was it a motivator for him? Or just a bonus?

Again, you're forced to confront yet another twisted reality: were their others? This elaborate prison couldn't have been built, in a matter of only days, for you? Was that why he lamented having taken you so soon?

Its a dangerous question but you have to know. You  _ need  _ to know.

"Are there others that you've taken?"

His expression quickly shifts and you know, you  _ know,  _ you've said the wrong thing. You've pissed him off.

John leans forward, dark eyes on you the entire time, "No. And because, apparently, I have not made myself clear, there  _ aren't  _ any others, there have never  _ been _ any others, there will never  _ be  _ any others. You are mine."

You shiver at his words. It seems unreal, almost. Because, honestly, you weren't that interesting.

You worked and you went home. Your hobbies were almost all homebody activities. The few friends you did have made fun of you for acting like a grandma.

It's all too overwhelming.

"I'm nobody," you whisper.

A beat passes and John closes the distance between you, stopping just in front of your chair. His hand reaches out and gently caresses your face. You resist the urge to shiver at the contact.

"You're wrong." He says it with conviction and you almost wonder if he knows something you don't. Of course, he doesn’t. He can’t.

But before you can say as much, he angles your face towards his and leans forward.

He wastes no time in capturing your mouth in a kiss as his hands tangle themselves in your hair. You dig your fingers into the chair as he devours you as you do your best to ignore the part of you that wants to wrap your arms around him in turn.

His hands rolls down your body before sinking into your ass. He rips you from your seat, almost effortlessly and you scramble to hold onto him as he drives you both back to the bed.

You're lowered until your back hits the mattress. Before you can blink, John is on top of you, kissing you again.

It hardly feels like a kiss so much as being consumed. He drinks from you like a fine wine, groaning suddenly, and you realize one of your legs has wound itself around his thighs, holding his body to yours. Immediately, you go to move it but John's hand shoots out to hold it in place as he rocks into you.

Fuck, you think, barely able to breathe as he kisses you harder.

You manage to turn your head to the side as he parts for breath, but it doesn't seem to even phase him. 

His mouth lowers to your neck and suddenly he is fused to you. He sucks then nips and, god, this is somehow worse than him kissing you because it feels so _good_.

Your neck has always been sensitive and between John's lips, tongue, and that sinful beard, you feel as if you're losing your mind.

You can still taste him in your mouth and, god help you, he tastes so good.

He feels good, in ways he really shouldn't. His mouth on your neck has you aching in your core, wishing you could appease the discomfort.

John's beard scratches up your neck and over your cheek. The drag burns but it doesn't hurt so much as make you hyper aware of his presence. As if you could ever be anything else.

You’re not sure how much time passes as you lie there, underneath John. Locked in an embrace. He just holds you, his head tucking down. He breathes in deeply as he rests his face in the crook of your neck. 

After a few minutes, he lets your leg fall back to the bed and he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“I know that this is different from what you’re used to. I know you must be feeling all sorts of things you aren't used to," you shiver as he looks up and meets your eyes, "But things will make sense. And they will get better. Okay?"

He seems almost tender in the moment and you're a little afraid of pushing him back towards aggressive. Still, your fear pushes you to say, "I don't want to be locked up forever."

"You won't be." He promises, a hand caressing your face and pushing your hair back. "I don't want you to have to be locked up at all. Right now, this is for your own protection."

From the outside world. An invisible enemy that likely doesn't exist outside John's head. From a million threats that came with just being alive.

"Down the line, when I feel you can be safe, I’ll take you out. Maybe we can get away for the weekend and go somewhere nice. But we’ll start slow. The house, the property. Trust needs to be earned.”

Trust needs to be earned. You can work with that. Bide your time, if need be.

“So,” you clarify, “If I’m good, I can go outside?” 

“You can go on the balcony, with me, for now. But you cannot leave the property."

"Can… can I see the house?” You ask, surprising yourself with the desperation of it. The little spark of joy that comes at the idea of leaving this room.

John seems to consider your query, looking at you with an intense concentration.

You lick your lips, “I’ll be good.” You try, wondering if that might egg him in the right direction. 

You doubt you’ll be able to escape. He probably has the entire house locked down like this room, but even if you can figure out exits, find out if there’s a phone… 

Bide your time.

You can start to plan.

“Please?” 

And at once, he seems to break in his resolve.

“Alright.” He says and John pushes to a seated position, “But if you misbehave, I swear to you, you will not leave this room for at least a week.”

“I’ll behave.” You find yourself nodding and John offers you a hand. You take it and he easily tugs you up.

"Why don't you grab your slippers?" John prompts and you ignore the sting of being infantilized. 

You hurry to oblige. You had been so caught up in getting away from John, it hadn't occurred to you just how desperate you were to get out of this white room.

John undoes the locks while you get ready. You hear the faint beeping and then the click of the lock as you come out. The door is open and you feel a wave of relief flow through you. Stupid, you think. You’re not getting out of here anytime soon. But at least you can stretch your legs. Get a glimpse of the rest of your prison.

He offers you a hand. Again, unwilling to risk losing this opportunity, you take it.

John's hand is warm, if a little calloused. He leads you down a long hallway with closed doors. “Spare bedrooms.” He offers in terms of explanation. The last door, which is also shut, John hesitates on. It is at the very end of the long hallway.

“This room… is not done. I’ll show it to you later in the week.”

A twinge of anxiety hits your stomach. That he wouldn’t show you the room had many implications, all involving you. Your mind immediately went to torture chamber, but you pushed that thought out. For all his talk of punishments, he really seemed to prefer you willing and compliant.

You nod, however, and John turns you to look around at the balcony. Jesus fucking Christ.

His living room is massive. Bigger-than-your-apartment kind of big. It consists of a primary level that is largely empty of stuff save a few plants and side tables and a sunken center. The sunken center has two couches, several chairs, and a coffee table. All are centered around a tv that takes up a good portion of the wall.

John tugs your hand towards the stairs, which spiral down to the first level, and you descend. 

"You're welcome to explore." He says as you reach the first level, "The basement is off limits for now. But the rest of the house is open to you."

He releases her hand and she steps forward, looking around. The house is stark white, with no paints or wallpapers to add a bit of color. There are, however, large windows that stretch entire walls.

There's a courtyard with trees and a bench, encased between walls and glass.

Unreal.

You walk across and under an entry way and into a large kitchen. There's a breakfast nook under a window, a granite countertop bar, and more space than you ever imagined in your dream kitchen. 

Life really was unfair.

There's also a glass door. You imagine its made of the same unbreakable material as upstairs. It seems to be set up with the same kind of triple-lock system as your room. Thumb print, retinal scan, and a code.

Off the kitchen is a dining room, clearly unused, but clean.

It was a huge house but it almost looked like a house in a magazine or a model used for a walkthrough.

There was very little evidence that anyone lived there.

You look at John, who has followed you room to room, with curiosity.

He raises a brow.

"How long have you lived here?"

“Fourteen years.”

You blink, “Are you kidding?”

He shakes his head, “Why?”

“You’d never know.” You say, idly walking though and ending up back in the large living room. “There don’t seem to be any personal touches.”

“I don’t need much.”

Ironic, you think, considering the fact he lives in a fucking mansion.

Suddenly, a hand is placed on your chest as an arm reaches around you. John steps into the space behind you and holds you to him, resting his chin on your head as you both look out over the large space. 

“You can decorate it however you like.”

Your heart stutters in your chest as he adds, “It’s your home, too, Helen.”

What a thought that is.

But he’s right, at least to an extent.

Until you can find a way out, this house is yours.

Your home.

Your prison.


	6. Fracture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If y'all think this chapter is bad, just wait... cuz next chapter is gonna get darkkkkk

Mornings, you discover, are the hardest to get used to.

You wake up, each morning, in the softest, warmest bed. Your head is cradled in the crook of another’s neck. A weight drapes across your back in a way that makes you feel safe, protected. The musky scent that you breathe in is sharp and comforting. And, for a brief time, you’re content to just snuggle into him and breathe his scent. 

And then, inevitably, your brain seems to switch on.

You remember where you are; who you are snuggled up to.

The first three mornings, you had tried to untangle yourself from him only to have John tighten his grip and pull you back.

By the fourth morning, you had given in, just a little bit, by just staying there. In his arms, not even trying to escape. You promise yourself that you are not losing your resolve. That you aren’t falling for his warped trick.

You’re just… surviving. Getting by without exhausting yourself by protesting every little thing.

It’s been ten days since he took you.

Ten days of falling asleep in bed next to John, ten days of waking up in his arms. Of those ten days, you’ve spent a week playing his game.

He has to know, you think, that you haven’t given in this easily. That you aren’t suddenly happy to be here.

But he says nothing and you say nothing, and the game goes on. And on.

And since you have started playing, he hasn’t really tried anything.

Which both relieves and confuses the hell out of you.

You’ve been playing docile, been using your manners and acting sweet. And for ten days, you’ve been on edge. Waiting. Wondering when he was going to make a move. Either punish you for a simple mistake or reward you because you have been following his rules. You’ve been being so  _ good _ .

And he’s rewarded you with more freedom. The house is open to you, until he determines that it’s bedtime. Again, an unnecessary infantilization on his part, but you don’t complain. Both because it’s pointless and because he usually waits until you’re too tired to argue. He’s given you access to fresh air via the courtyard and the balcony. He even leaves the balcony when he’s not there.

But nothing like that first night. 

There were still touches. Almost constant ones. He seemed addicted to having a hand somewhere on your body. His hand in yours while you walked. A hand on your leg while you read in bed. An arm around your body as you watch television together.

And he wants you. You’re pretty sure about that, and not just because of the morning reaction to having his body pressed against yours. Even later, his eyes are always on you, dark and intense. You almost wonder if he could swallow you whole with his gaze.

Sometimes, you swear he's purposely stopping himself from touching you more intimately.

But he refrains from  _ anything. _

The day before, you had decided to tempt fate by showering while he was in the bedroom. You had wondered if he would join you, at the very least watch you. But he hadn’t.

Which was good.

You didn’t want him to watch you.

But you were right there. So why hadn’t he?

_ You’re losing your mind _ , you tell yourself as you stare at your reflection. Again, tempting fate, you’ve put on a grey sweater dress that clings to you. You forgo the makeup but brush your hair and use the lotions that John has provided. The skin creams are better than anything you could have afforded.

It gets harder and harder to make sense of things with every day that passes.

He’s deceptively nice, when he wants to be. He can make you forget what he is capable of in the minutes where he’s letting you taste the soup he’s making off the spoon or when he’s chatting with you about Russian literature. 

He’s smart. Obviously, he had to be clever to manage to kidnap you and cover his tracks as he had done, but he’s honestly brilliant, too. He speaks more languages than anyone you know and he has that sense of culture that only comes from travel. Street smart, book smart… the only thing he’s missing, you realize, is emotional intelligence.

For all his cleverness, John can’t seem to wrap his head around why you would want your freedom as he offers you the world.

But he no longer seems to be angry at your petty acts of rebellion.

Instead, he just seems amused.

He hadn’t been kidding when he said you could buy whatever you wanted to decorate the house.

That very night he had disappeared for a few minutes before returning with his laptop. On the browser, there were half a dozen tabs for stores you had never even heard of. You soon realize that was because of the price tags associated with everything. Even the throw pillows ranged at around two hundred dollars. 

“Ever heard of Home Goods?” You asked him as you clicked through the tabs.

John had shaken his head.

Un. Real.

You ordered some ridiculous things, just to try and see if he reacted. When you placed a bronze statue of an elephant in the cart, he had smirked at you like he knew your game. And didn't care. 

Didn't care that you bought a $2,800 bronze elephant with his money. You'd paid extra for expedited shipping and delivery.

Then again, he hadn't batted an eye at paying off your student loans.

John was… complicated.

A strange cocktail of intense and laid back. Soft and harsh.

You really weren't sure what to make of him most days.

You hear the beep of the door as it opens and you, unconsciously, straighten your dress. And you hate yourself for it.

He disappeared this morning, after bringing you breakfast. Usually he eats with you, watching you. Pushing you to finish whatever he serves you. John seems obsessed with making sure you eat.

Today, however, he had left you in peace with your eggs, toast, smoothie, and latte. With a kiss to your head, he promised he'd be back in a few hours but was available by phone if you needed. The first time he'd really left you alone for more than the half hour or so it took him to make breakfast.

You'd taken advantage of the time, and the tub, to indulge yourself with a long bath.

It had been wonderful, at first. You'd soaked in the bubbles and relaxed. Closing your eyes, you could forget that you were locked in the room. Locked in the house. That you should be at work right now, making money to pay for your crappy apartment. 

Almost.

Until the self-loathing hit you.

What the fuck was the matter with you?

How were you so pathetic that you were relaxing in a bubble bath instead of finding a way out?

That you heard the door and immediately thought to straighten your dress?

You push it down because you can’t deal with it. Not right now.

_ Add that to the list of things to talk over with a therapist.  _

He’s standing by the open door when you come in, drumming his fingers on his leg in a surprising show of what has to be nervousness. It catches you off guard because what the hell does John have to be nervous about?

He catches sight of you and  _ fuck _ . His eyes darken and he seems to stand up a little bit straighter. His eyes drag down your body and you can feel your hair standing on end as he does, before he looks you back up.

You fight the urge to shiver under such scrutiny.

“You look beautiful, Helen.” He says and his words make your chest feel heavy.

You offer a small smile but still refuse to answer to the name he has given you.

Again, John shifts, almost uncomfortably.

“I, uh, I have something for you.”

“Oh?” You try to ignore how breathless you sound as John offers you his hand.

You close the distance and set your hand on his. He entwines your fingers and leads you out of the room and down the hall. He pauses when you reach the end. 

A small loveseat and a coffee table has been set up at the end of the hall, in the little alcove that overlooks the living room. Last night, it had not been there.

John leads you past it, however, and to the door that has been closed. The one he was waiting on.

“I had wanted to have it ready when you came home.” John says quietly, almost shyly. “Most of it was ready, but I had to wait for a few things to be shipped. To make it perfect.”

Days ago, you had wondered if it were some sort of torture chamber or sex dungeon. The anxiety in your chest builds a bit as he opens the door and leads you inside.

Your mouth drops open at what waits for you.

Every wall is lined shelves. A few windows peak over the top of the shelves, giving the room a bit of natural lighting on the sloped ceiling. The center of the room has three lines of shelves as well, reaching about four feet high each.

He lets go of your hand and you find yourself moving forward, scanning the shelves in a mix of shock and awe. 

“This, uh, this side of the room,” He says, coming to stand just behind you, “Is all non-fiction. The back wall is poetry. The opposite wall are classics. The middle is fiction.”

That feeling of surrealness hits you, again, as you examine his gift. The thousands upon thousands of books that make up your own private library. You recognize many of the titles but others are brand new to you.

Your stomach twists in knots, both in wonder and in the things unsaid.

He has gifted this to you, but the reason is mixed. Presenting you with the things you love most, while attempting to keep you busy and happy enough that you do not think to run. It won’t be enough, you think, to stop you from trying to escape but even as the thought flows through you, you find yourself making mental notes of which books to pull from the shelves. You create a mental list of the order you want to see them, to read them.

Your fingers trace the spines of books on the back wall. Many of the poetry books are older. Not worn, but earlier editions.

You stop when you reach a case, the contents hidden under frosted glass.

You turn to look for John and he is only steps behind you. He reaches you and wraps an arm around you, while he reaches forward with the other hand to push up and open one of the many shelves.

About eight books sit on the shelf, laying flat.

“Rare books” John explains, “The frosted glass--”

“Keeps them from direct light.” You finish, understanding his intentions now.

His care for books is surprising, as is his attention to detail.

“The first editions,” he says, “are from the fifth shelf down.” He closes the glass and taps the sixth shelf, “Six through eight are books I rebound. They’re not all first editions, but they are just as delicate.”

_ I rebound? _ You think, as you look over your shoulder. Perhaps a slip of the tongue?

“ _ You  _ rebound or you  _ had _ rebound?” You clarify, eyes narrowed.

A faint pink tinges the parts of his cheek unhidden by his beard. “I rebound. I have a, uh, office, I guess. In the basement. It’s what I do when I’m not working.”

What the actual fuck. 

Slowly, you reach up to the sixth shelf and push it open. It’s just about at shoulder height but you still stand on tiptoes to get a better look inside. Sure enough, you recognize the tell-tale signs of a rebound book. 

While most appear to have been sectionally sewn, two have the external binding favored by the Japanese.

You gently touch one, “ _ The Art of War _ with the Japanese binding is a nice touch.” You comment.

“The irony is lost on most people.” John admits and you feel his lips press against the top of your head.

_ This _ is what continually throws you. The stolen moments of tenderness in the wild expanse of fucked-up. The kisses to the head, the soft touches as if he’s worried about breaking you. It juxtaposes to your setting of an, albeit elaborate and beautiful, prison and the harshness he has shown you. 

You know he is capable of violence and darkness but when he’s like  _ this _ … when he’s thoughtful and bashful and sweet… it’s hard to make sense of John Wick.

It’s hard not to be impressed by his displays of wealth but this, you think, goes far beyond wealth.

You’ve dated people before who wouldn’t think to give you a single book, even if it was well within their means. But this… this library he has built for you has taken more than money. Time and energy have been spent organizing this, planning and preparing this.

John Wick has thrown you for a loop and you no longer know up from down.

Without really thinking about it, you find yourself leaning into him, still staring at his creations.

His hands, those same hands that had kidnapped you, abused you, brought you to new heights in pleasure had bound those books. Hands he had used for killing had managed to take the life of an object out of time and piece it back together.

Those hands are wrapping around you, holding you tight.

Helplessly, confused and lost, you look up over your shoulder. Sure enough, John is looking back down at you. His eyes are so intense that you feel the elongated pause of your heart skipping a beat.

He's bending his head towards you and you could probably turn away. Could force his lips to meet your cheek and play it off as if you were looking at one of his creations…

But you don’t and he’s kissing you. A hand slides up your body and disappears into your hair, tangling itself before John tugs your head back. He deepens the kiss and you stumble back, losing your balance but John catches you. He manages to spin you fully around and all of the sudden, you're pressed amongst the books on the poetry wall.

John is holding you up so your face is at his height. Your legs wrap around his waist, keeping you braced against him.

You groan at the contact and John seems to take that as a sign to continue. 

His tongue is warm and tastes like coffee. It circles around yours while one of his hands traces down your side.

His fingers alternate between gentle caresses and grasping at your flesh. 

John sucks on your tongue and, fuck, you hadn't even noticed but your arms have made there way around him. One is around his back, the other over his shoulder and your hand is holding his face to yours.

This is  _ wrong _ . It's completely and utterly fucked but nothing makes sense anymore. John feels good, and it's not right, but maybe it's something to cling to.

You can't think about it.

You can hate yourself later.

For now, you're lost in the sensations that come from John pushing your dress further up your thigh. His hands are warm and the calluses feel rough against your skin but you find, to your surprise, that you like it. You like his touch. His scent. His taste. The feel of his body pressed against yours.

It’s enough for now and you tighten your arms around him.

He growls against your mouth as he adjusts you in his arms, pulling your bodies closer together while he bunches your dress up around your waist.

You can feel the bulge of his cock pressed against his pants and you have to hold back a whimper. You roll core against him and John pushes you harder into the shelves.

"Fuck, Hels…"

His mouth descends upon your neck and he reaches up a hand to pull the scoop of your sweater dress to the side. He kisses along the crook to your shoulder. His teeth graze your skin and a whine escapes you.

You grind into John because, fuck, you need this. You need this so bad. To forget for a minute, to feel  _ something. _

Consequences are for later.

John sucks in a breath as you roll your hips into him.

Another swear escapes him and the arm around her back tightens, "Hold on to me."

He says and you nod, holding him closer to you as he unwraps your legs from around him and sets your feet back to the floor. Your legs feel uneasy as you put weight back on them but John holds you in place as he drops to his knees before you.

You're unsure of what he is doing until he presses his open mouth to your panties.

A swear escapes you and John digs his fingers into the band of your underwear. There's a sharp tug and a soft rip as he half drags them, half tears them from your legs.

John tosses away the ruined scrap of fabric. You're left exposed and John immediately takes advantage of this new freedom.

He pushes your legs apart and, again, John leans forward. His mouth descends upon your folds eagerly. His tongue glides along while his beard scratches at your sensitive core. You lean back into the shelves, stifling a groan. Fuck.

His tongue swirls around your clit. He grinds his mouth into you and you grip the shelves for stability. 

He seems to delight in the way you can barely support yourself as he pleasures you. An arm wraps around your ass and John uses it to dually support you and force his face closer to you. You wonder, idly, if he can even breathe with the way his entire face is buried against your pussy but the thought vanishes as quickly as it had come as his other hand raises to cup you. A thick finger teases your entrance.

Your head feels like its swimming, like it's simultaneously weightless and too heavy all at once.

John lifts his head and you find yourself looking down. His eyes are darkened by lust and he holds your gaze as he drags two fingers between your folds, soaking them in the wetness. 

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, John pushes his fingers inside you. He keeps eye contact, almost curious as he does. Like he's waiting for a protest.

He's not going to get one and you push down at the shame that's trying to build within you. 

Instead, you reach down and wind your hand into his hair and pull his face back against you.

John's fingers sink in the rest of the way and his mouth opens eagerly, ready to service your unspoken request. 

His fingers curl inside you while his mouth sucks on your clit.

Your grip tightens in his hair and he growls against you, sending little waves of pleasure through you.

Your breath hitches and you roll your hips against him. He licks faster, harder and you feel yourself rising, your orgasm building. John's fingers rub your cunt and you feel yourself starting to get lost amidst the waves of pleasure until, fuck…

You cry out, falling back against the bookcase as John continues to lap at your pussy and nip at your clit. You can feel your body shaking as your orgasm wracks your body.

You breathe heavily, gasping for air as John lifts his head and shoots up to a standing position. He keeps your body pressed against the bookcase, ensuring that you remain upright, as his fingers continue to tease your insides.

An arm sweeps around you and John lifts you up and off the ground, closing the space between you to keep you pinned. His fingers, inside you, spread and stretch you, making you gasp anew

His mouth descends on yours and you can taste yourself on his tongue as John’s thumb rolls against your swollen clit.

You gasp into his mouth as John removes his hand. He seems to reach lower and you hear the soft sound of a zipper rolling down.

_ Finally _ .

You barely have time to think before you feel the head of his cock running along your folds. He is soaking himself in your cum as you wrap your legs around his thighs, pulling your bodies closer together. 

And then John is pushing inside of you.

His movements are slow and careful, as if he's trying to make sure you can handle him. A part of you is grateful that he's giving you time to adjust to his girth but the rest of you is desperate for him to just bury himself inside you.

You roll your hips into his, your breath hitching as you take him deeper inside you.

His grip around you tightens as he slowly withdraws and then rolls back in.

He's so gentle, almost  _ considerate _ and it throws you because this is not what John is. And it's not what you need right now.

You find yourself nipping at his lips, dragging your teeth across his tongue to try to bolster some reaction out of him. 

He doesn't get to make love to you.

You thrust your hips forward, wordlessly trying to communicate your needs and  _ thank fuck  _ he seems to get it.

All at once he starts moving with renewed vigor. John slams into you and you are shoved into the bookcase. It hurts, gloriously. His breaths are loud in your ear as your mouth finds its way to his neck.

You suck at the skin and John makes an inhuman noise that has you ready to break down and come undone again.

You squeeze around him.

"Fuck, Helen!"

His gaze is fixed upon you, as intense as you've ever seen it. John just stares at you while he continues to fuck you. You're no longer sure if its his dark expression or his rapid pace that is making you quake in his arms.

He jerks forward and you cry out, feeling that pleasure building inside of you again. Its growing in the pit of your stomach, making it hard to breathe.

John adjusts you and reaches up, cradling your head in his hand as he pulls you forward and against him.

"You want to come, Helen?" 

He pistons his hips and, again, you nearly shriek at the wave of pleasure.

"Yes!" You gasp out and suddenly his lips fuse to yours as he fucks you harder, faster.

John swallows your cries as you come undone around him, your hands clawing at his back.

He starts to tense, his grip on your thigh becoming increasingly tight until he lets out a shout of his own against your mouth. You feel him spilling inside you as your pussy continues pulse around him.

You collapse into his arms, breathing heavily.

It is only then, in the rush of the afterglow, that your realize you had answered when he called you Helen.


	7. Chapter 7

You’re losing your mind.

It’s been twelve days since John broke into your apartment and had kidnapped you. Twelve days since you woke up in this prison.

And in those twelve days, you’ve hated your captor. You’ve empathized with him. You’ve listened to him and talked with him.You’ve craved his company and his body. You’ve hated him all over again. 

_ Who else were you going to talk to?  _ You wonder.

Twelve days of just John.

Twelve days of John’s touches and head-kisses. Of longing stares and falling asleep on his lap, only to have him carry you up to bed. 

He’d given you everything you wanted, save your freedom.

Even fresh air was rationed. He allowed you in the courtyard whenever you liked and the balcony, on occasion, but you remained his prisoner. And such time, you were certain, was dependent on good behavior.

_ Good behavior _ .

You hadn’t acted against him since that third day. The punishment consisted of a rough spanking before he  _ rewarded  _ you by fucking you on his fingers. For an hour. Until you begged to come.

He forced you to like it, to crave it. 

Before he took it away. For a week, he teased you by placing a hand on your thigh or his arms around you possessively. But never more.

You’d love to blame John for your breakdown two days ago. When he had kissed you and you hadn’t stopped him. In fact, you’d encouraged him. You’d kissed him back and climbed his body like a tree. You’d come under his tongue and then, again, bouncing on his cock.

_ Whore _ .

You were disgusting.

It had only taken ten days for him to break you down. 

And he hadn’t abused you. Aside from the spanking, he hadn’t hurt you. Not once. Maybe, it would have been easier to rationalize everything if he had hurt you.

Instead, all it had taken was a gesture of kindness, of consideration.

And you had crumbled into dust.

“You’re thinking too hard.” John says and his arms tighten around you.

You blink, unsure of what to say to that. John presses a kiss to your head and you close your eyes.

Sometimes, you try to pretend that you’re not really there. That John is a friend, a lover, rather than your captor. He makes it easy to do.

But you don’t deserve that reprieve. 

You can’t allow yourself that break because if you do, you’re giving in.

You hate yourself for what you’ve already allowed to happen.

“Helen?”

“Sorry, my head hurts.”

_ Fuck _ , you did it again. You responded to the name he had given to you without thinking.

_ That’s not your name _ . You remind yourself.

The loathing builds in the pit of your stomach but you’re not entirely sure if it’s directed at your captor or yourself.

John pushes up on his arm, leaning over you. His voice is filled with concern as he asks, “Do you need anything?”

You clench your nails into your palm and swallow back the sob.

“I’m fine.” You lie.

He looks down at you, almost doubtfully, but he does not push. He reaches down, caressing your face with the back of his knuckles, tucking your hair back as he does. 

“What can I make you for breakfast? Pancakes? French toast?”

The line between sweet and manipulative was blurred long ago that you're not even sure what this is anymore.

"French toast, please."

He nods and gives you a final kiss to the forehead. "Want to come with me?" He asks, but you can tell he knows you'd rather stay here.

You shake your head, "I wanna shower."

"Alright, love."

You shiver at the endearment and your eyes follow him as he crosses to the closet. You watch from the bed as he slides sweatpants on followed by a plain t-shirt.  _ A damn shame to cover that torso up _ , you think, then chastise yourself, looking away.

You’re really losing it.

You hear John murmur that he’ll be back but it doesn’t fully register until you hear the beep of the lock disengaging and watch as the door closes. Only then do you get out of bed and make your way to the bathroom.

You turn the water to scalding before slipping out of the lilac silk nightgown John had laid out for you the night before.

It bothered you how much his tastes seemed to align with yours. While you wouldn’t have bought yourself the exact same gown, you imagine you would have chosen a similar one in a more affordable price range.

Just another little way that John got into your head.

The worst part was that he didn’t even seem to be  _ trying _ to get in your head.

You slip into the shower and embrace the burning water, lost in your thoughts. 

Was anyone looking for you? Or had John covered up your tracks well enough that no one suspected a thing?

You had your phone but, somehow, John had managed to disable your ability to message or call anybody but him. Email was disabled, as were contacts. And every social media app had been deleted, leaving you only with games, your kindle app, and photos of a simpler time.

You wondered what had happened to your apartment. Your things? 

You doubt John would have just left it there. He would tie up any loose ends he could find.

Did he throw it all away or have it packed into storage? 

While John answered any questions you had about him, he no longer allowed questions about taking you.

_ There's no use dwelling on the past. _ He had said.

Because that's what it was. Your past.

How long, you wondered, until you really accepted that?

The way you accepted John's touch, his kiss? The way you responded to the name he had bestowed upon you?

You close your eyes and lift your head into the steady stream of hot water. 

There was something seriously wrong with you, to be so attracted to the man holding you hostage.

You finish showering quickly.

After your… indiscretion the other day in the library, you'd stopped tempting fate. You weren't entirely sure why you had in the beginning.

_ Why the hell did you let him fuck you? _

_ Why the hell did you fuck him back? _

Guilt from that day made your stomach roll, even if the indiscretion had been glorious while it lasted.

A part of you had hoped giving in to him would ease your desire. That maybe John would be terrible and or selfish in his affections and you could stop the growing obsession you had with the only person you ever saw.

You snort and think,  _ so much for that plan. _

You wrap your hair in the towel before you go to the closet. 

Its amazing how choosing your outfit now feels like an ordeal. 

You want to look pretty, then feel disgusted with yourself. You need to remind yourself what John is. Pants are a must, you think. An extra barrier if you start to feel weak.

You settle on black yoga pants and an extra long sweater that hides your shape and covers your ass.

You dry your hair the best you can and toss the towel into the laundry basket before you head back into the bedroom.

_ Cell,  _ you think. _ Not bedroom.  _

And its not a house; its a prison. So why is that so hard to remember?

You find yourself drawn to the windowed wall and rest your head against the glass.

The sun hides behind a layer of grey.

God, you miss being able to just go outside.

John had promised your imprisonment wouldn't be like this forever but his timeline was built around him breaking you down. Until then, he wouldn't trust you with really leaving the property.

You were trying to play the long game with John but the lines between pretending and reality were becoming harder to see. How much could you give before you eventually broke down?

You hear the beep and the lock disengage but you don't turn around.

“Would you like to eat breakfast on the balcony?” John asks.

Your head shoots up and you can’t help the hopeful tone that emerges, “Really?”

He shoots you a look. John hands you the tray and begins to undo the complicated lock. It opens and you breathe in the rush of fresh air that comes in. The cool breeze helps relax you. 

John grabs the comforter off the bed and lays it out for the two of you to sit on.

You try to ignore the romantic undertones as he takes the tray from your hands and sets the plates down.

He’s made you French toast but settled on simple eggs, toast, and sausage for himself.

You sit down against the glass wall and breathe in the morning air. The little taste of freedom fills you with a bittersweet taste but you'll take it.

John is content to eat in silence, you've discovered. Especially in the morning, he almost seems to prefer it.

That's fine with you.

It makes it easier to remember what he is when he isn't making you laugh or forcing you to think.

"How was it?" He asks, as you sip your latte after clearing your plate.

"It was good." And it was.

"Anything need to be changed?"

You blink and look at him curiously, "No."

He nods, "good." At your lingering gaze, he admits, "I'd never made it before."

You swallow down the rest of your coffee. You wonder if he'd spike it if you asked. 

"Where did you learn?" You find yourself asking.

"YouTube."

_ Oh. _

Well.

You almost ask why but you can read between the lines.  _ For you _ .

Isn't that what this came down to?

It was all for you.

John stacks the plates together and you set your empty mug on the tray.

"I have to do some consulting today." He tells you, "I'll try to be quick but it could be an hour or more. Would you like to pick out a book?"

You had wondered what today would consist of. You had read every book in your room within the first week and were now beginning to make your way through the library he gifted to you.

Usually, John remained by your side.

You found yourself oddly disappointed by the news that he would be gone.

You tell yourself its because it means you'll be locked in the room. You worry, however, that it is much deeper than that.

You shake your head to his question, however. "I'm still reading  _ Metamorphosis. _ "

He nods, "Alright. I'll be in the basement so call me if you need or want anything, okay?"

You nod and John leans down to kiss your head.

He takes the tray with him as he goes and, its with great surprise to you that he doesn't insist you come in.

He's leaving, actually leaving. You watch over your shoulder as he undoes the lock and opens the door.

John had left the balcony open before while he showered or went to prepare lunch but he said he would be gone for an hour. Maybe longer.

Was this a mistake?

Was he coming right back?

You wait, counting the seconds. He doesn't come back. 

You find yourself climbing to your feet.

The idea that it’s a test floats vaguely in your mind, but then would he expect you to try to jump?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Its one floor up but you could make the landing. You were sure of it. 

A voice in your head warned you of the consequences. 

John would be  _ angry. _

But by the time he knew you were gone, it might be too late.

You just needed to get away, get to the police. To a phone. To  _ anyone. _

You could make a break for the trees and be gone before he even knew to look.

But if you're wrong… a red ass might be the least of your problems.

And then, there's the worst of your fears.

You're starting to like it here. To like John… what if, the next time this opportunity comes, you're too lost to try?

Your heart pounds in your chest.

You have to try.

You might never forgive yourself if you don't.

The height is intimidating when you look straight down but what choice do you have?

Fall loose, you tell yourself. That’s what you do, right? If you’re too stiff, bones break and that’s the absolute last thing you need. Bend the knees.

You touch the rail and lift a leg when it happens. An alarm starts blaring and your heart rate spikes.

So much for secrecy.

But you’ve committed. Holding your breath, you let yourself drop. The adrenaline races through your veins as you plummet towards the ground. You land on your feet but fall. The wind is largely knocked out of you but you can’t stop. Gasping for breath, your force yourself to your knees, and then to your feet.

The alarm tells you one thing for certain: John is coming.

You don’t have time to stop.

So you run. You take off towards the trees because you can’t possibly outrun John. But with your head start, maybe you can hide.

All of the sudden, you regret your decision.

_ Hide? _

No. John would find you.

But you’ve committed. This is your one chance at escape. At getting help.

You’re certain you’ve never run this fast in your life. The tree line isn’t far, now. If you can just ignore the painful feeling of the ground on your bare feet…

A weight launches itself at you and you’re falling. You expect to hit the ground but you’re rolled in the air and land on top of an, albeit hard, surface and John grunts underneath you.

No. No, no, no, no, no. You were so close!

You try to break free of his arms around you but John rolls again and suddenly you’re face down on the grass with John above you. He growls in your ear, “You shouldn’t have done that, Helen.”

Even when he was taking you, that first night in the alley, he hadn’t sounded so dark. So ominous. So  _ angry _ .

He was pissed.

You had pissed off your assassin captor.

In a last ditch effort, your thrash about, trying to shake him off you but to no avail. John wrangles your hands into one of his, his legs carefully pinning yours to the ground. You feel him lift off your torso but you’re not entirely sure what he’s doing until you hear the sharp sound of his belt being ripped from it’s loops.

He wraps the strip of leather around your wrists and pulls it tight until it cuts into your wrists painfully. He knots it in place and your heart sinks.

Glancing up, you can see the tree line just ten feet away. You were so  _ close _ but it doesn’t matter anymore.

You fucked up.

"You don't get to leave me." There's anger is his voice, but fuck, there is hurt there too.

"I'm sorry!" You say and you are. Of course, you couldn't get away from him and, of course, he alarmed every possible route of escape.

"You're going to be." 

He yanks the shoulder of your sweater off to the side and you shriek as his teeth sink into you. You can't tell for sure if he's broken the skin but you  _ know  _ he's left a mark.

"You're mine." He reminds you, his arms snaking around you. One hand sneaks under your shirt and squeezes your breast hard, "This belongs to me."

You squirm beneath him as he pulls your sweater up and finagles his other hand into your pants. His calloused hand cups your core, " _ This  _ belongs to me."

His finger dips in, separating your folds.

"I'm so sorry, John!"

A tear slips from your eye and you feel it track down your face as John fondled you. His hands dig into your flesh of your breast while his roughly rubs your cunt.

"Who do you belong to?"

“YOU!” The response comes without thinking and the moment it’s out of your mouth, you wonder if you’ll come to regret your answer.

“That’s right.” John removes his hands from where they tease your flesh but before you can feel relief, his fingers curl into the band of your pants and rip them down and off your legs. Before you can move or start to panic, he’s back on top of you, pushing your sweater up to expose as much skin as he can.

You feel him start to sit up but he keeps a hand to your neck, keeping your head pressed into the ground. Even as he does, you can feel him moving on top of you. You swallow in anticipation for what is to come.

All of the sudden, he is back on top of you and you can feel his length against your thigh. 

You feel your heartbeat stuttering in your chest and John’s hands grab at your hips. As your thighs part, you realize you can feel the moisture of your pussy. 

You whimper as John's cock is set against your entrance. 

"No! Please, I'm sorry!"

He strokes the length down your opening, coating himself in your wetness.

"You can lie, but your pussy can't. I can feel how much you want me."

"I'll be good," you promise, "I'll be so good! I promise."

"Yes, you will."

Your face is in the grass but John has your hips in the air, holding you up as he pushes inside you.

You try to cry out but it sticks in your throat with the shock of the intrusion. You try to push up but you're trapped under his weight. John reaches a hand over you and pins your bound wrists to the ground over your head.

He rolls his hips, pushing himself further inside you until he can go no further.

You feel him exhale in your ear and there is a moment of respite.

And then he is moving, thrusting his hips into yours, rocking you harder into the ground. His grip on your hips keeps your body angled to meet his needs.

A gasp escapes you as he fills you again. 

Every move is angry, furious. The force behind every move hurts, but that doesn't stop the little waves of pleasure that are already building inside of you.

God, you can’t be enjoying this…

“I can feel how bad you need me.” John grunts out, “so fucking wet for me.” He moves the arm around your hips over so that he can reach your clit. His fingers rub at the little bundle of nerves and you jerk in his arms.

You bite your lip to keep from calling out but he pries a moan from you as he mercilessly teases your clit.

“Tell me you love me!”

You swallow, gasping out the words, “I love you!”

“You’re  _ mine _ .” John growls, “Mine.”

You whimper and his hand starts rubbing harder. You see stars. 

“Say it!” He all but shouts.

"I'm yours! I'm yours! I'm yours!" You cry until your voice gives out, fading to the moans and whimpers of your entrapment.

Thoughts of escape have flown from your head as he uses you. Your hands grasp at the grass and dirt beneath you, a hopeless attempt at grounding yourself as he continues to pound into you.

Your vision starts to blur while John’s grip tightens on you. He’s unyielding in his touch and fuck, it  _ hurts  _ as he fucks you into the ground but the pleasure is still building inside of you. Aching, burning, and breaking you down.

You crest over the wave of intensity, your body seizing as you come but John doesn’t ease the ministrations of his hand or his angry thrusts.

You collapse against the ground but John keeps going.

His hand on your raw clit is almost too much and you shut your eyes and whimper as he lets go of your wrists. He moves his hand down towards your neck. He lifts your head via your throat and using a finger to turn your head to the side.

You gasp for breath as he forces you to look back up at him.

“You’re mine.” He tells you again and he slaps your pussy.

You tremor, stung by the pain but it hadn’t hurt for long. He goes back to rubbing your clit while he stares down at you and you feel your pussy clench around him.

You’ve barely come down but he’s forcing you back up. Your eyelids start to shut and he slaps your pussy again, this time with more force. Your eyes jolt back open.

“Don’t you look away from me!” He growls, his hand around your throat tightening until your head starts to feel light. You force your eyes to maintain contact even as they long to drift shut.

Between the lack of air and his attention to your cunt, you feel as if you’re already floating. The second orgasm breaks over you. For a moment, you feel weightless as your body reacts. 

You barely have a moment to let it overtake you before John’s grip on your throat and pussy tighten again and you feel his cock release inside you. His hips slow their pace as he cums.

He holds you to him and, though your eyes are open, you can’t really see anymore. Your vision has turned to haze.

John adjusts his grip on you and you can feel him slip out of you and then spin you around like a doll. Like you weigh nothing.

You’re hoisted into the hair and settled onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

You can’t even find it in yourself to mutter a protest as he carries you back to the house, to your prison.

You’re losing your mind.

Your head feels like it’s floating as John brings you inside. He slams the door behind the two of you and you wonder if he’s still angry. If he’s going to punish you some more.

You shouldn’t have tried to run.

You knew it was a risk and, fuck, it wasn’t worth it.

All the rapport you had built over the last few weeks were as good as demolished.

You can barely open your eyes but you can feel him carrying you back up the stairs and down the hall.

Back to your cell.

He drops you on the bed and you bounce, your head lolling to the side.

The world seems like a haze. You can’t quite tell up from down, left from right. 

You hear the door shut and then another.

There’s a minute of silence and then the sound of water running.

Like a river.

You wonder if you’ll see a river again. He had said he would take you out when you were good but you had been bad. So bad.

You're shaking, wondering if you're shivering or in shock. 

Suddenly, the bed dips and you feel the bindings on your wrists tighten then it slips free. Your shirt is pulled up and off but you barely register it.

Arms slip behind your back and under your knees and the bed disappears from beneath you. 

You're pulled to John's chest and you can, vaguely, hear him whispering to you but the words are lost on you. His lips press themselves to your head.

And then you're encased in a warm, wet heat. Water sloshes gently around you as you are set down in the tub.

The water rises and a body slips in behind you.

John.

Even in your state, you recognize him.

You'd recognize him anywhere.

Arms slide around you, anchoring one at your stomach, the other over your chest.

"My sweet girl," he says softly, "My sweet, beautiful girl.” He kisses your shoulder and you shiver in response, your head leaning into his shoulder.

You’re too exhausted to argue, to think.

The speed at which John could go from brutally fucking you to whispering comforts in your ear was mind-boggling.

“I know you didn’t mean it. You were just confused, weren’t you?”

You’re not even sure anymore but you nod along because that seems like the right thing to do.

“Yeah,” John murmurs, pressing a kiss to your neck. “You're mine. My love. My life. My  _ wife. _ "


End file.
